The Right Thing
by jbosco
Summary: Bosco narrates the trials of his life after transferring to the 7-9, getting a new partner, and succumbing to alcoholism. Originally started August 2005. Set post-GBC 7 years, OCs/slight AU. Part 12 up as of 5/17/10
1. Part 1: Spite

Title - The Right Thing 1/?

Disclaimer - Don't own the characters, of course, just borrowing.

Summary - In this follow-up fic to I Can't See, Bosco narrates the trials of his life after moving to the 7-9 and describes his struggle in winning back the person who means the most to him.

Warnings - Language. This is Bosco talking, after all.

Lyrics - "Blind" by Lifehouse, "Something Like a Broken Heart" by Hannah-McEuen, and "That Ain't My Truck" by Rhett Atkins.

* * *

The air is cold as I open the door of my car, and it hits me hard. I take a deep breath, slam the door carelessly with my shoe and stumble ahead through the darkened parking lot. He's parked in the same place - a far corner, the furthest from the building, and completely hidden during the night. I always thought it was foolish, because surely a big, NYPD detective could snuff his way into a closer parking space. But what angers me more is that on the days she drives it home, she's left to trek across the parking lot herself. And on those days, she always leaves after shift-change, meaning there's plenty of parked cars, but no one around. It's not like I don't think she's capable, but I worry about her. I always do. Part of me can never believe he could do as good a job protecting her. Ma tells me its jealousy. That's usually when I tell her to pour me another one, and then in response, she refuses and tells me I'm self-destructing and 'I won't help you do that, Maurice'. It's kind of become my routine to go by her place, drink myself bloodshot and report my new record of how long I stayed outside their place...waiting. Ma doesn't even bother to tell me not to anymore. I guess after six years, she's given up trying to dissuade me. Now, she only occasionally encourages me to move on with my life. But it confuses me. I just try to snatch the bottle of Jack and ask her how I'm supposed to do that when someone took the only life I had. 

I'm closer to his pickup now, and even in the blackness I can see it. It's not the kind I'd expect from some upstairs gold shield either. It's an old and worn 4x4, at least, that's what I assume it is...there are no titles left on it to tell me. They must have fallen off over the years...but even a moron could tell its a Chevy. It looks as old as my Mustang, but it's uglier. And slower, too, I'm sure. I laugh. I'm definitely not jealous of his ride. I never met the guy formally, or anything, but I still didn't get that sentimental vibe from him, so I seriously wonder what he's doing with the bucket of rust. I think for a split-second that maybe it used to be his old man's and after he kicked it he felt the need to keep it in the family or something. The reason is lame to me, especially since I know I wouldn't want to keep anything _my_ dad touched. I never understand why people feel compelled to keep things like that anyway, especially after someone dies. Isn't it kind of a morbid reminder?

But more than I'm concerned with why he has the piece of crap, I can't help but wonder if it has defective airbags, if the brake pads are worn, or how often he checks the tranny fluid. I cringe, thinking of something malfunctioning while she's driving. I shake away my thoughts. I don't have much time, so I pull the knife from my pocket and take a long, last drag of my cigarette before tossing it on to the pavement and smothering it with my sneaker. I don't really know when I started smoking, I guess somewhere around the time I started drinking like the early Fred Yokas. Speaking of Fred, I remember asking her if this Miller guy was anything like him, back during one of my first - and last - confrontations about him. It had been my not-so-discreet way of trying to figure out if he deserved her. She didn't give me much to go on, besides that he wasn't like Fred, and that wasn't saying much, so as far as I was concerned, he wasn't good enough. I have heard stuff about him at the House, though. Everyone I hear from makes him sound all honorable and crap, and I'm not sure if that makes it easier or harder to hate him. I shrug, deciding on the latter and stepping up to the front wheel.

After last night, my intentions are solid. I'm not waiting any longer.

---------------------------------------------

**22 Hours Earlier**

_After all this time  
would you ever want to leave it  
maybe you could not believe it  
that my love for you was blind  
_

The same goddamned song was on the next night, as I sat in my car, nestled against the same curb opposite her building. It was the same time, too, give or take twenty minutes. What were the freakin' chances? Ma would probably say it was some sort of sign, but if I told her the lyrics she'd probably take it back because it would entirely discount her theory. Just because, of course, she openly opposed my "stalking", as she'd termed it a few years back. Stalking my ass.

Over the years, the only thing that ever separated the nights from one another other, or kept them from blending monotonously together, was the weather and the radio. And since the radio was obviously fucked up, the weather was the only thing I had to bet on. And, thankfully, it was raining. Otherwise I might have actually gotten a little creeped out. I had my engine on accessory so the windshield wipers could keep the rain from blurring my vision of her window.

_Couldn't make you see it  
that I loved you more than you will ever know  
a part of me died when I let you go_

I lurched forward, jabbing an angry finger onto the seek button. Anything was better than that song. I scanned through a crapload of ads and few stations shouting something about Jesus, silently kicking myself for not having XM or Sirius something. It was 2011, for Christ's sake, and I still had to search through terrestrial radio for some half-decent music that didn't try to rub my face in the shit I was going through. Of course the only channel not in need of funding at that very second was some redneck crap. Yeah, my only option was the single goddamn country station in New York City...

_I pulled over by the curb  
I've been sittin' here all night  
Wonderin' what it was I did so wrong  
That he did so right  
I thought of breakin' down her door  
But there's nothin' left to say  
That chevy four-by-four  
Says it all, sittin' in my place _

No, that ain't my truck in her drive  
Man this ain't my day tonight  
Looks like she's in love and I'm out of luck  
That ain't my shadow on her wall  
Lord this don't look good at all  
That's my girl, my whole world  
But that ain't my truck

"Somebody shoot me," I mumbled to myself, and then reached forward again and turned off the radio completely. The silence disconcerted me, but I really had no choice. CDs weren't an option since the player went out the window around the same time my A/C started to go. And literally. Someone carved my it out of my dash back in 2008 - just busted my window and snatched it in the middle of a goddamn police department parking lot, and in broad daylight no less. The civs of Bedford-Stuveysant were bold sons of bitches. I hadn't been too devastated, though, but mainly, I had to dish out the money to fix the window before I could start thinking about getting a new CD player. So I never did get around to replacing it. Besides, that was all insignifcant crap anyway compared to what I'd been through.

Now that there was no music on, I could actually hear myself sighing and it reminded me of just how alone I was. The temperatures had been dropping over the past few days, and several times I wanted to turn the heat on, but my car was just too old to sit and idle for hours. Instead I just leaned back in my seat and sighed again, prepared to keep a steady gaze on her window until I couldn't see inside anymore, simultaneously preparing to let my mind wander back to the year when everything went wrong.

A sudden knock on my driver's window sent me sitting up straight, startled. In six years, the only knocks I'd ever gotten on the window were from a countable number of bums who I'd told to piss off, before resuming my surveillance. And I can't even remember what year that was in, I just know it was a long enough time ago that I'd let myself become unprepared for interruptions and, so, whoever dared to mess with me tonight was about to get an earful.

I rolled down the window, looking up to meet some guy with graying hair, and eyes so baby-blue they belonged more on a chick. I squinted to adjust to the dark and realized I recognized the man. I was just trying to figure out how he'd gotten from the entrance of the opposite complex and across the street to my driver's side without me seeing him. It made me doubt my instincts for a second. I found over the years I'd been doing that a lot. My eyes had never gotten back to 100. I mean, I saw well enough to get by, but I never let on to anyone that my vision was still somewhat fucked up. That and the years weren't exactly making me young again. I'd be 39 soon. That was another fact I enjoyed trying to drown with whiskey.

"The hell do you want?" I barked, averting my eyes from the man's suspicous glare.

"I want you to leave us alone," he said simply. I looked back up again, kind of surprised. I'd been ready for an argument of some sort. Of course, then I remembered what a great guy he supposedly was, and clearly he wouldn't lower himself to the hostile Boscorelli Standard. He nodded as if waiting for me to agree.

"No."

"No?" He looked shocked that I hadn't immediately obliged and started to leave. I repeated myself, getting an evil, incredulous laugh in return.

"Look," he said, leaning in toward the window and pointing a finger at me. "I see you out here. Outside our place every night. You don't think anyone knows, Boscorelli, but I do---"

"Oh save it, Captain!" I shrieked, slamming a fist into my steering wheel. I narrowed my eyes. "I been sittin' outside _her _place every night for six years! What, you just _now_ grow some balls to come say somethin' about it?"

"You're stalking her, you little rat bastard!" he roared. And it would have been funny, since having watched him from a distance on the job over the years, I'd never heard him so much as raise his voice. He sounded too intellectual to be at all threatening and I don't think he could've scared the pants off a whore. But when he kicked the side of my Mustang I lost the capacity to see any humor in the situation. I shoved the door open and stood up to face him.

"I don't stalk people," I informed flatly, shrugging and somehow managing to suppress my growing rage that craved to beat the crap out of him.

"No? Then what do you call this?" he made some flamboyant gesture from my car to her window, which was still aglow. "Huh? What do you call that?!"

I crossed my arms calmly. "It's a free country. And I call it being parallel parked. On public property."

"Don't mess with me, Boscorelli. I want you to get the hell out of here and never follow her again, you hear?"

"I'm watching out for her!" I hissed, then lowered my voice to a mumble. "More than you do."

He wiped a hand over his mouth in frustration, and I tried to shake away a feeling of unsettlement when I realized he didn't seem too threatened by me, either. "Look," he started, glancing at me and then off to the side. "I don't really know you, but from what she tells me you're okay. So I don't want things to get ugly, but---"

"You threatening me?"

He shook his head, "Just stay the hell away from her," he warned, then turned and walked off, leaving me to stand in the cold, swallowing back tears. When I finally climbed back into my car, I was torn between feeling complete betrayal and a sense of optimism, because according to the bastard, she still talked about me.

-------------------------------------------------------

The sound of air escaping from the tire makes a hissing sound that seems to echo in the parking lot. I briefly scan the area, but see no one, so I wrench the knife from the rubber and start for a back tire, stopping short at the driver's window. I don't know why I suddenly feel compelled to look inside, maybe just because I never have. There's a condensation built up from the cold air and last night's rain, and I wipe it away before pressing my face against the window and squinting, allowing my eyes to adjust. I think maybe if this guy's as sentimental as it seems there should be some black and white wallet photo covering his odometer or something. The interior comes into view, though not that well. I can make out the seats - they're in better shape than I'd have expected. There's some trash on the passenger floor. And a jacket slung over the seat - her jacket. I recognize it, too. But there's no pictures. I roll my eyes. The man is not living up to my preconceived stereotypes. Regardless, I get back to work, reaching the back tire, stabbing it and slicing it until it has no choice but to go flat. And not just go flat, but go-flat-and-be-slashed, meaning no possibility of being patched with Fix-O-Flat or some crap. Meaning four brand new tires, which is money - even on a veteran detective's salary - you don't hand over happily. And on top of that, money that probably isn't even worth being put into the lemon. I rush around to the other side, hastily imposing the same violence on the remaining tires, and then stand back to revel in my victory.

It's not some cheap way of lashing out because he kicked my 'Stang. Hell, I don't think he even left so much as a mark or dent. And besides, like I said, I lost whatever zeal I ever had for keeping my car in prize condition. I expect little more from it than for it to get me to work in the afternoons, to Ma's bar, and back home. The rain washes it and occasionally I put ten dollars in for gas when I absolutely have to. Of course, that only makes me wonder when ten dollars started getting me less than a gallon. More incentive to drink, and I definitely don't need more of those. But, anyway, that's not why I'm standing here admiring the sinking tires on his shitty Chevy. There is more at stake than some piece of crap car or my pride. And, yeah, I could probably, somehow, pull it off without having slashed the tires, but I guess there's always room for spite.

I back away, slowly, glancing around again to ensure I'm the clear. There's a few uniforms wandering inside for the overlapping first shift, but they don't see me. I get in my car, searching frantically for my lighter. It's been a few minutes since I put out my New York Cut and that's just far too long to go without. But all I can find is a half-empty pack of Newport in the crevice of the passenger seat. It will do. Lighting it, I watch the back door, ignoring the slight blur in my eye when I focus too hard. See, if I planned everything right, she'll come out in several minutes. I used to have reservations about eavesdropping, but I had to know what time he'd be meeting his ex-NYPD buddy from the first generation 7-9 at some seedy diner around the corner. I had to know everything so I wouldn't screw anything up. I even had to stand outside her office when he told her who was in town and how they needed to 'catch up', "So, honey, I'll leave the car". I hope I didn't miss any crucial details when I ran to the locker room to puke after that.

I know both their schedules like the back of my hand, even when they vary with each case. And his revisiting of his street days only helps me to seal the timeline. And, right on schedule, she appears out the back door. I watch her for a second before taking a long drag.

"Thank-you, Miller," I mumble bitterly, before coughing as the smoke burns my throat and lungs. And I laugh to myself at his naivety. Sure, I'm betting on a lot of things working out exactly how I hope, but the plan is in motion, now. There's no going back.

She's still on the top of the steps, pulling her hands around her arms like she's cold, and glancing back at the door. I figure she's probably deciding whether or not she feels like fetching her coat or something. She never did dress for the weather.

Finally she tosses a hand toward the door in a 'fuck it' fashion and heads across the parking lot, digging around in her purse until she pulls out the keys. I wonder if she could see me if she looked up - if she could make out my car or if its too hidden by the dark. Or, if maybe she wouldn't notice me at all. I try not to depress myself with any more 'maybes', and move my head to follow her as she reaches the truck. I realize the sane person might find this somewhat creepy or voyeuristic, but I justified it to myself a long time ago.

I wait silently until she discovers the not-so-operatable state the truck is in, shouts a few expletives and then, expectedly, pulls out her cell phone.

"Call your hero, Faith," I breathe out bitterly, along with more hot smoke. I start the engine, noticing how aged and uncared for it sounds but not caring, and drive slowly toward her, flicking on the lights when I slow to a stop. Her hand shoots up, shielding her eyes from the sudden brightness, and thankfully, with her other hand, snaps her cell phone shut. She wanders toward me, almost cautiously, leaning over a little to see better.

"Bosco?"

"Hey," is all I say, and somewhat coldly at that. It's not intentional, but we've already just about set a record for our exchange of words over the past years. The only thing that really tops it is our necessary communication at a crime scene, and even then, it rarely surpasses anything more than, "Have you canvased?", "Yes.", "Thanks." And recently I haven't even been on scene with her, but even when I am, that dialogue hardly counts.

She looks at me suspiciously and then glances at her watch. "What are you doing here? You got off...two hours ago."

"I was...around," I mutter, disguising my lie behind a nicotine-induced cough. This is one part of the plan I didn't prepare for. "...My new partner sucks with the paperwork," I add, and I wonder if she notices its weird that I refer to him as my 'new' partner even though we've been for six years. She still stares with a doubtful glint in her eye, but shrugs, and eventually points to the truck.

"Some...bastard slashed John's tires," she shakes her head, and suddenly I wonder how obvious the truth is. But then, I realize, I've never been outwardly hostile toward him. She'd really have no real reason to suspect me. So for now, I feel I'm in the clear. "He's gonna be pissed."

"Jagoff," I murmur, and she nods in agreement, shrugging. We're both quiet for a few seconds before I speak again. "...You need a ride?"

"Uh, yeah," she looks as if she might agree, but then stops and shakes her head. "Actually...you know, I could walk."

"In the cold?" I notice her hands are back around her arms, hugging herself.

She shrugs. "It's not that bad out. Really, I can walk," and she starts to leave. I wonder if maybe she's suddenly reconsidered because my voice doesn't exactly sound like myself. It's low and scratchy and guarded. But seriously, who is 'myself'? I don't even know anymore.

I step on the gas, pulling up abruptly, blocking her in with the front of the car. She stops short and looks up.

"Faith, we don't talk. We hardly even look at each other. Now I can't give you a ride home anymore, either?"

She looks from me to the ground, and even in the dark I can tell she's biting her lip. I realize my tone was combative, so I remember that my original intent was never to come here to fight, and continue more civily. "Come on," I sigh, tossing a hand up and letting it fall and hit the side of the door. "Just get in. There's no tellin' how much longer this thing will stay runnin'."

I swear I see the hint of a weak smile on her face as she shrugs and starts for the passenger side.

"Since when do you smoke?" she asks, sliding inside and pushing my Newport pack onto the floor. I don't need to look at her to know she's displeased with the tar stench of the vehicle.

"Since when do you hesitate to get in a car with me?" I counter, pulling away from the lot, but still avoiding her eyes.

I can tell I've succeeded in pissing her off already, but as usual, I talk before I think. And I don't want her to change her mind, but I do feel a little better knowing that as long as I'm driving she can't just jump out or anything.

She dodges my question to answer with one of her own. "Have you been drinking?"

"What?"

"You heard me," she repeats, her tone accusing. "You smell like alcohol. Have you been drinking?"

I shrug and move my cigarette to my mouth again. "It depends what you mean by that exactly. If you mean tonight, then no. If you mean since we left the 5-5--"

"Why do you have to be such a smartass?" she interrupts. "I asked a simple question."

"Well I'm not drunk," I inform, turning to her for the first time since she got in. I know my expression's stony when our eyes first meet, but I notice the concern in hers so I soften my features and nod. I'm really not drunk, so it's not a lie.

She turns back toward her window. We ride in silence for a few minutes before she frowns and looks around. I can tell she's looking at me but I use all my resolve and keep my gaze straight ahead as I anticipate her protest.

"Okay...Bosco..." she sounds more annoyed than anything as she looks through the window suspiciously before turning back to face me. "Where are we going?"

I stall by inhaling my cigarette once more for all its worth before heaving it out the window. I don't answer, and out of the corner of my eye I see her shake her head and lean back, defeated. She rests her chin on her hand and stares off through the window again. Content she's looking away, I shift my attention from the road to her. The air from my open window has snuck in and is tossing her blonde locks all around, but she seems unaware.

She's beautiful.

And I suddenly notice how fast my heart's beating. We haven't been this close for a long time. The sad part is, there's still a good two feet and a console between us. And that's not including all of the distance between us that isn't physical - the years since we've been partners, the years since we've said more than a handful of words to each other, the years since we were best friends. I guess my entire plan was about trying to salvage whatever might still be left of that.

"The bridge?" she asks, sitting up straight as I reach the destination and cut the engine.

I nod. "Our bridge. We used to always come here, remember?"

She looks at me but doesn't speak, tearing her eyes away to look back outside again and shake her head. "Why did you bring me here, Bos?"

I shrug. "I guess...I wanted you to remember."

"I never _forgot_," she tells me, her voice strained and almost offended. I see her shiver and remember she has no coat, so I pull off my own and drape it around her shoulders. She looks like she might reject it but the warmth proves too good to give up, so she accepts, pulling it tighter around her arms.

The only thing I can hear is the occasional sound of the wind and distant traffic as we fall into silence. But its not an awkward silence like I expect.

"You seen anyone lately?" I ask, trying to spark conversation. I'm not exactly good at getting right to the point, and if it means we sit here longer, that's fine with me.

"What?" she glances up, confused, and I realize I was vague.

"I mean," I clear my throat and try to cough away the acidic taste left in it. "Anyone from the 5-5 lately."

She shakes her head, "No...not for awhile anyway."

"Yeah, me either," I confess. "Ran into Sully a few months ago, though. At the bait n' tackle checkin' out the lures."

"What were you doing at a bait shop, Bosco?" I swear I think for a split second, she might actually laugh.

I shrug. Ok, so I didn't run into him by chance. But I'm not gonna tell her I actually met with him for his advice, or that it wasn't months ago. Namely because it concerned her, and secondly because I never take advice. Especially not from Sully. But I'd been desperate, and he'd laughed and in his usual un-sarcastic tone told me, "Crap, Bosco, six years? Why give up now?"

So I'm not gonna.

"Told me Davis is finally marryin' Monroe," I add, hoping she'll temporarily forget about the discrepancies in my account. "We should be gettin' invitations soon."

"Yeah," she nods. "I heard that too. And that Finney's having another kid."

"No kiddin'," I mumble, though I'm more distracted by the simple sound of her voice - talking... to _me_. "Weird isn't it? I mean, everyone movin' on."

"Yeah," she nods again.

I laugh, "'Course you didn't really have any trouble doin' that..." And I avoid her stare because I know I've pissed her off...again.

"So, why can't you?" she says finally, pausing again "...Move on, I mean?"

I shake my head, slightly angered by how easy it is for her to strike a nerve. "It's not that easy," I snap.

"So what, then, Bosco?" she pleads. "Tell me. Tell me why you really drove me out here at 1:30 in the morning! Because it wasn't just--"

"I want it back," I say suddenly, trying to make progress. "Us."

All I get for my efforts is a long pause and finally, a shallow laugh. "That's unrealistic, Bos. I'm a...Detective. How would we ever work together again?"

"Not that," I mutter, shaking my head as I try to find my words. "I mean, I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he's there now. I hate that there's someone else there to look out for you. Someone _else_ to have your back when you're on the streets, someone _else _to take you home at night, someone _else _that you talk to. I hate it! I hate_ him_! Okay?"

I succeed in scaring us both back in silence as she pretends to concentrate on something outside.

"I mean...tell me you don't," I challenge, turning to stare her down. She looks back questioningly. "Tell me you don't think about me, too."

"Bosco..." she trails off, looking away as her voice becoming weak and shaky.

"No, tell me," I order persistently. "Tell me you---"

"Ok!" she concedes, fresh tears spilling down her face. "Is that what you want me to say? Because I do, every second," she lifts her hands to emphasize, "...of every minute...of everyday! Okay? ...But, but...you can't just come back after all these years and make me second guess myself...and my life! You can't!"

"No, no, no, I didn't come back," I correct angrily, leaning over and throwing a thumb toward myself. "Because _I_ never _left_, Faith!"

Had I really made her second guess things? Maybe I'm making more progress than I thought.

"I know it was a long time ago, Bos," she starts, narrowing her eyes at me. "But I'm pretty sure it was _you_ who asked me to shoot for you, _you _who told me to stay out of your business, and _you_ who wanted me out of your life!"

"So...so, what?" I ask, leaving no time between the end of her words and the start of mine. I have my left hand on the steering wheel, and throw my right up in question. "You're...doing this out of charity or somethin'?"

She shakes her head like she's giving up. Like I'm not worth effort the effort of a rebuttal. She glances off through her window.

"Oh my god," she mumbles suddenly. I've since readjusted my stare straight ahead, but I turned to see what she's so shocked about.

"It was you," she continues in disbelief. I struggle to figure out what she means. "You did it, didn't you?"

"I didn't do anything," I mutter, looking away. My voice is filled with regret. I sure as hell _wish_ I'd done something a lot sooner.

She ignores my tone. That or she just doesn't notice it. "You slashed his tires! What the hell is wrong with you, Bosco?!"

"I did not," I lie, but my argument is weak. I kind of expected her to figure things out - in a way, I almost wanted her to. Maybe she'll see how serious I am.

"Yes, you did. And you weren't just 'around', were you?"

"I was," I insist, but I avoid her eyes because I know my own will contradict my words.

"You're lying," she accuses.

"I wouldn't lie," I mumble.

"You already lied! No one is 'just around' the House after work. We leave, we get the hell outta dodge. You set this whole thing up! The truck, giving me a ride..." She shakes her head as if she can't possibly believe she walked into my 'trap'. But I only did it because it was the only way to talk to her. The only time in years I had ever been able to get to her when she wasn't being guarded by that Miller bastard.

"I told you I had to do paperwork," I bluff, my voice low. I'm still staring ahead through the windshield, although I know its futile to try to fight my case now. "Had to catch up."

"Bullshit, Bosco," she intercedes, leaning back. "Wolf does more paperwork in one shift than you've done in your career so don't think I'm gonna believe that crap. And I've seen his reports, he can spell."

I scoff, grinning bitterly. I can feel her eyes burning into me as she stares me down for an answer of some sort. I don't exactly know what she wants me to say. She knows she's right, I know she's right. Maybe she think I'll apologize. But if that's the case, she might sit there waiting all night.

"Take me home," she orders suddenly, apparently giving up waiting on me to speak. Her voice is defeated...almost disapointed, in a way. Like she never believed I was capable of doing something like I'd done. Which is a funny thought, because I remember doing stuff that should've pissed her off a lot more.

I hesitate, staring down sadly at my steering wheel, wracking my mind for something to say...anything that will prolong our time together. Anything at all.

"Faith..." I start. I hear my own voice and it startles me. It's weak and high, and desperate.

"I mean it Bosco. Now," she says, her voice strained and with warning. She reaches for the door handle. "Or I'll just get a cab."

"Okay, okay," I concede, punching the steering wheel. I see her flinch out of the corner of my eye at my sudden anger. Then, begrudgingly, start the engine.

I pull up against the curb, something I've perfected somewhere over the years. I could probably parallel park with my eyes closed by now. Without hesitation, she reaches for the door, even before I've completely pressed the brake. Almost reflexively, I reach out for her arm.

"Wait," I plead, and I realize how pitiful it sounds - and how futile my attempt is. But I don't care. All I know is how much I _don't know _what I'll do if she walks away. I might head over to Ma's and watch her clean up, try to sneak a few drinks while she's preoccupied telling me about how dad walked out on her again, like it's some big revelation or something.

"Bosco, let me go," she sighs insistently, trying to shrug out of my grip, but I hold on tight.

"Look, can we just talk?" I beg. Yes, I beg. I have no other options - my plan failed miserably - no, scratch that, _backfired. _

"No."

I continue to try to reason. "We don't have to go anywhere else. We can stay right here...and just talk," I motion to the car.

She glares at me through teary eyes and shakes her head, "I think you've said enough."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just stare back for several long seconds, before, in one motion, leaning in and pressing my lips against hers. She backs into the corner between the seat and the door. With my fingers still coiled around her wrist, I kiss her harder - with all of the desperation and acrimony I've accrued over the past six years. I don't pull back until I feel my lungs threatening to burst from the lack of oxygen. When I finally do, she stares back, completely still, and I try to read her eyes - they're confused and shocked, bewildered, even, but there's something else in them that I can't quite place. And it depresses me, because it never used to be impossible for me to figure out.

She finally yanks her wrist free from my hands, and struggles, almost in panic, to find the handle and push the door open. When she succeeds, she runs toward the entrance, stopping short suddenly and turning back. I'm sorting through the war in my head - the massive haze of complete confusion and fog - when I notice her walking briskly toward the car again. For a split second I feel new hope - not much of it, but a tiny spark somewhere amongst the inner battle I simultaneously fight - that maybe I've said or done something to make me matter to her again. But when the door swings open, all I get is a freezing burst of air and a pile of material when she hurls my sweatshirt at me, slams the door shut, and stalks off for good.


	2. Part 2: Just Another Confrontation

The Right Thing 2/?

-----------------------

I've been playing "stack the creamers" for twenty minutes at the same seedy diner where Miller supposedly met up with his long lost uniform buddy. I keep wondering who the guy really is and if it's really a guy. I mean, I heard the name, but somewhere in me I keep inviting the possibility of him having some sort of affair. Not because, of course, I'd want her hurt or anything, but because it might just mean the end of him. Maybe it would make her realize he isn't any better than Fred. Maybes. The damn fucking maybes, it's all I do these days is conjure up scenarios that might encourage her to leave him. But the latest - the whole cheating theory - is obviously farfetched. If the guy's as loyal as everyone makes him out be, he'll be hella hard to get rid of.

_You could always kill him, _my mind suggests. I laugh. If ever my mind had any good suggestions, I might actually be somewhere by now. That or maybe I just need to lower my moral standards or something. Which is funny in itself since everyone has always emphasized how little of them I have to start with. Maybe they're buried in a shallow grave out in Jersey, along with my feelings...

I glance up toward the entrance just as he enters, keys in hand, pulling off his sunglasses. The rain let up several days ago, making way for sickeningly-nice weather. Still cold, but sunny and all that shit, with blue skies, that makes everyone turn into a bunch of overtly-cheerful mind drones shouting out good wishes left and right like they've been infected with some sort of disease. Especially the people in this joint. I come here a lot actually. It's not the cleanest place in our precinct, but it's cheap and in the back where I sit is quiet and I can mull over whatever particular issue haunts me on that day, as if it's ever a different one or something. Me and Wolf usually spend our 10-63 here, too, so they all know our orders by heart. Today when Amber greeted me in that vomit-worthy 'isn't-life-fucking-great' tone, I declined. I didn't really have an appetite when I came in, and even the smells from the kitchen haven't incited one.

He slides into the booth opposite me, pulling off his jacket and grabbing a menu. He scans it briefly before looking up at me with his oh-so-feminine pale blue eyes.

"Well," he says with an exaggerated sigh. "Glad we could meet, Boscorelli. Little more civil here, now, isn't it? Compared to our unfortunate run-in last week. You got the message, though, that's good."

I will him to spontaneously combust, but I don't succeed. He's glanced back down at the menu with a huge-ass smirk on his face. The only other time I really ever talked to him was when he confronted me outside her apartment for 'stalking' and that was a good week or so ago. After taking her home the night after, I never went back. It was the first time in years where I didn't go sit outside her place for hours. But it wasn't because I listened to him or anything. And that whole resolution I had about bearing my deepest emotions when she left the House? Forget it. One night and a superficial 'goodbye' later, and I rushed out to the car as usual. I'm 'deeply rooted in a carefully plotted routine' as Ma calls it. I think it's her kinder way of telling me I'm just pitiful.

"You're late," I state coldly. "I been waitin' forever."

"Sorry," he snaps, glancing up again with the same obnoxious grin. I hate his attitude. He's not the least bit intimidated by me - like I'm zero competition, and his holier-than-thou persona exudes him in every word. I guess I've never encountered somehow who was literally not threatened by me in the least, or could actually put on a good show and at least pretend they weren't.

I shrug, "Okay, well. Let's talk because I don't have all day."

"Hey, you told me to come. I did because I'm respectable, not because I have anything to say to you. So why don't you tell _me_ why we're here?"

His tone is light, like he has no care in the world. Like he has no qualms about what I might tell him. And it pisses me off so bad that I can't even unsettle this man in the least. Part of me wants to divulge how I kissed his wife, just to see if it's enough to wear down or fuck with his almighty exterior.

He flags down a waitress and makes a drinking motion. She hurries over with coffee, and looks at me questioningly. I shake my head. I'll never understand why they try to force food and drink on me in this place. I eat enough. A lot less than I used to, but enough.

I run my fingers through my hair. Why _are_ we here? I never really knew exactly what I wanted to say to him - at least, nothing civil, anyway. I guess I wanted to try to figure him out for myself, see if I could unearth some sort of ulterior motives, some dirty laundry or something to hold against him.

"I hear it's your birthday," he says suddenly, interrupting whatever words I'd planned on saying.

I frown, "Yeah. How the hell do you know?" I'm unnerved by his knowledge, but sort of grateful he's spoken first.

"Faith told me," he informed, raising his coffee in toast-like fashion before taking a cautious sip. "She tells me every year." He hardly seems unnerved that she mentioned _my_ birthday to _him_. Part of me is actually surprised she remembered. More of me is angered that it doesn't even bother him. Shouldn't it make him…._something, anything_? I don't know…jealous?

"No kiddin'," I mumble, staring off through the window.

"Yup," he continues. "Not a big deal though. You still have another year to go before the big four-oh. I just hit another landmark myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. 50 this past week," he winces and pauses for a second. "So, get anything good?"

"What?" I look up from the model Leaning Tower of Pisa I've created with half-and-half cups.

"For your birthday, I mean," he clarifies.

"Uh, no," I shake my head and look down again, rolling my eyes. "You?"

He shrugs, "New tires," he says flatly, causing me to look up abruptly and cringe at the ensuing whiplash.

"I know, weird, right?" He must notice the curious look on my face. "I mean, I know my trucks old and all, but I swear the tires were fine. Guess they were getting a little bald, though."

"Really..." I mutter, swallowing hard.

"Yup," he continues without suspect. "Just told me it was in the shop. Next thing I know, four brand new _Goodyear_s."

I feel like pounding my head against a brick wall, but since there are none in sight, I just grit my teeth and nod. How the hell could I possibly be that unlucky? Not only did my plan backfire, it blew up in my fucking face. He never had to pay for the replacements - hell, he never even had to suffer the dissatisfaction of knowing someone hated him enough to vandalize his Chevy. Everything was great in his life, while mine had gone to hell a long time ago.

_Damn you, Faith! _Somewhere over the past nineteen years, she'd gotten far too good at covering for me.

We're both silent for a long time, he just sips his coffee and snatches a newspaper from the table behind us. I gaze out the window while destroying and rebuilding that tower. Finally I speak. It's hardly even a concious act, I just sort of blurt it out.

"Do you love her?"

"What?" he looks up over the paper only partially.

"I said, do. you. love. her?"

"What kind of question is that?" he asks, frowning. "Is that why you had me come down here on my day off?"

"Just answer the question, Miller," I insist, staring him down.

He narrows his eyes and then laughs before turning back to whatever article he's suddenly become so consumed with. "I did marry her," he says, like I asked the most retarded question in the world. It's 2000-and-fucking-11, and he thinks that means something these days? And no shit he married her. I was there for God's sake. Like I'll ever rid myself of those God-awful memories. I basically sat there, staring in utter revulsion at Miller; in mock appreciation at her father who all but stumbled in. He was as useless as my dad. He couldn't even hold off the bottle long enough to walk his daughter down the aisle. And her mother stood, trying to pretend like they were the some storybook family. Hell, our families were a lot alike. I was only grateful her father didn't resort to left hooks when he couldn't get his point across verbally. But yeah, 'the wedding', a whole other chapter of hell I'll save to remember some other day when I want to further depress myself. Right now, I've a bastard to confront.

I shake my head in disgust, and I guess he notices I'm unsatisfied with his answer.

"Yes, I do."

I battle inwardly with the part of me that doesn't think he really does - at least not unconditionally - while cursing the other part of me that tells me it could very well be true.

"You hesitated." I observe.

"What?"

"You hesitated," I repeat, "When I asked if you loved her, you stopped like you had to think about it for a minute."

"You tricking me?"

I scoff. "No."

"Yes," he lurches forward. "You're tricking me! And I don't like to be tricked." He does the same thing he did last week with his words, when he starts to talk fast and then slows down, forming them one at a time to get his point across. He'd spoken the same way to a few suspects before when I was on scene with him. Must be some fucked up personality trait or something.

I grin, thoroughly amused that I've begun to get to him. Normally his reaction might prove guilt, but I know I've been known to evoke the same response even in people who are sincere...so any answer I derive from his little outburst wouldn't be legit. Still, I can't help but enjoy watching him writhe.

"Temper, temper, Captain," I fold my arms, unscathed by his outburst, and I feel I've leveled the ground a little.

He leans back in his seat, glancing around like he's embarrassed, before turning back to me, his voice low. "Look, you better say what you have to say because I got places to go and people to see, you hear?"

I shake my head and shrug, still grinning, "That's all."

"Good," he finally says, grabbing his jacket and sunglasses and getting to his feet. "Then go to hell."

I just beam, pretending to be unfazed, and watch him head to the door.

I call out before he leaves, "Enjoy the tires, Miller!"

He turns, sneering and his head bobbling like some kind of dashboard figurine, then, unexpectedly, he marches over again, leaning down in front of me.

"You think you're smart, Boscorelli," he starts, and I can I feel his breath, but I'm too shocked by his boldness to protest. "But you're not. You know nothing," he slices a hand through the air to emphasize. "Nothing! You hear? She told me everything. _Everything_! About the tires, you taking her to the bridge. You're too full of yourself to even notice when you're gettin' played. But I don't throw six years away so easily. So if you want her back you're gonna have to try a little harder than _that_."

He turns around again, and for the second time, leaves me without the last word. I stare straight ahead, even for a minute after he's left, my mouth slightly open, before snatching his coffee cup and hurling it across the room. It slams into a table and shatters, glass shards raining onto the tile, and the remaining contents splashing everywhere.

I receive shocked stares from the employees, and then stand up and head to the door, mumbling 'sorry' on my way out.

--------------------------------

I hear nothing during roll call besides the distant droning of our lieutenant. I'm too preoccupied with my mind's reiteration of Miller's earlier words. I wonder how much she actually told him about the ride home, and whether or not she'd intentionally omitted one specific detail. A rather large detail at that... If she hadn't, the guy was becoming increasingly impossible for me to find flaw within. If he does indeed know, I'm not sure if I should be more or less pissed at him for not being more pissed about it in the first place. All this trying to analyze the man is giving me a killer headache.

Someone jabs my shoulder.

"Son of a bitch, Wolf!" I shriek. My partner is persistently shoving a thumb into my flesh.

"Sorry," he shrieks back without guilt. "You were off in space. Ag-_ain_."

I shake my head, looking around the room. It's virtually emptied out by now.

"You know," he continues. "It'd be nice if you'd actually listen during roll call now and then, so I don't have to know everything for both of us."

I stand up and follow him out as he goes on about me 'zoning out' all the time. I've heard the same speech a billion times, considering I've been 'zoning' out ever since we met in 2005.

"Why don't you get the radios and shut the hell up?" I snap.

He shrugs, "Fine."

"Good," I mumble, nodding, then call out, "I'll meet you in the car. I need to go do something."

He whirls around. "Oh come on, Bosco. No!"

"Shut up, Ryan."

"Don't tell me to shut up, Bosco," he yells. He never does take any crap from me. I kind of respect him for that. "I'm not gonna stand here and let you go make a fool of yourself --- again."

"I just need to look at her. Besides, it's none of your business."

"The hell it isn't! I only have to ride around with you for twelve hours and listen to you bitch!" He throws his arms in the air. "And 'just-look-at-her' my ass! You need to do_ something _progressive, or stop screwing with them and leave them alone!"

"I'm not screwing with them!"

"Oh no? You only kissed her!"

I turn around, "You wanna say it a little louder, Wolf?" I motion around the room. "Maybe get a megaphone?"

I guess it wasn't the best idea to shared that detail with him, but after six years, there's not much we keep from each other.

I glance around, thankful we haven't drawn too much attention. I turn back to my partner, who has thrown his hands up defensively.

"Fine," he says. "Go make an ass out of yourself. I really don't give a shit anymore."

I watch him leave, now less motivated to go upstairs. When it comes down to it, he's a good partner. A really good one, and a helluva cop, too. He's put up with me for six years, all of which I've been at my worst. If I were him I'd have asked for a new partner a long time ago. I guess he's just more tolerant than I'll ever be. He's been patient, he's listened to me complain, to me bitch about what I must have done wrong to lose her in the first place. He used to encourage me to try to fix things, but after so long, he's convinced it's a waste of time. I don't know. Maybe he's right.

But regardless of whether or not he _is_ right, I just don't have the willpower to quit trying. I turn around and head upstairs.


	3. Part 3: Domestic Central

**The Right Thing 3/?**

**----------------------------------- //**

Wolf is right.

He usually is.

I'm walking up the stairs to incite an argument, to dig a deeper whole, to disturb whatever sense of platitude routine the detectives had settled into over the years, to effectively shake up the 7-9 house with discord like its never seen. Discord that the 5-5 had seen plenty of times, but that even Bedstuy lacks. But it won't be the typical fight. No, it's more complicated than whatever surmountable issues that had, years ago, just left Sully and Davis staring on, rolling their eyes and, after we left, snickering at our expense. Funny thing, though, I keep walking…

On this day, however, this grand sun-in-full-fucking-view-day, someone has beaten me to the task. I mean, it's not like my intention is to start a fight. That hasn't been my intent – ever. I'm just trying to make progress – like Wolf said, I need to be progressive. And if words ensue after that, at least I've tried. I won't feel any better, but I can't fall asleep by Jim Beam knowing I haven't put my best foot forward. I don't get the chance, though, before I hear the painfully-hushed voices drifting into the hall.

I can't hear the exactness of their words, but I can make out enough to know the voices are hostile and familiar. Disgustingly-familiar, voice number two, shouts something before the door swings open. I jump nearly a foot at the abruptness. Something some would argue I never used to do, but along with my vision, my startle response is also fucked up.

Some would also say I was treading dangerous territory. She'd gone to Swersky six years back. She knew I was drinking, not sleeping, the whole nine yards. If she discovered my eyesight had, in those six years, not only not improved, but actually worsened, one might argue she'd go to the lieutenant now. But I'm not worried about that anymore. It's combination of not believing she would even if she knew, and not caring if she did. See – after all this time, I've gotten far enough away to see things clearer. To understand why she did what she did in the first place. That night at Mercy was presented to me in better detail several months after the 5-5 closed. I began to understand. Of course, before I could subdue myself in all my unabashed egotism to apologize, she had a ring on her finger. That's when I also began to see – not literally of course – that if she had gone to Lieu out of concern, for me, then maybe I was safe now, with my job and all. Because if that had been reason, and Sul and Ty had struggled to make me know it was, then it was because she cared. And, like I discovered last week, she doesn't anymore.

The whole part about not caring if she does, though, is really a last resort I justify my actions with. My days on the force are numbered, now, it's obvious. I'm to that point in my career where I see the end, whether I welcome it or not. Where I'm finally forced to come to terms with the fact that I can't run like hell anymore, can't sprint like I used to without getting winded. Hell, I can't even keep up with Wolf - which reminds me there are others out there, like me in certain ways, only younger. And it scares me to a degree to think, in a way, I'm slowly being replaced. Ma tells me I wouldn't feel so much like shit if I took care of myself. I don't bother defending it – she's right. I might feel 39 instead of 49 if I'd eat occasionally, stop inhaling cancer sticks or beating the crap out of my liver, so to speak. Damn the deeply rooted, carefully plotted routine…

I glance up to meet the taller, grayer whirlwind that is passing by in a huff. If it isn't Captain Miller in all of his smug – and by the looks of his set jaw, pissed-off – glory. I could let him continue on his way. I could stop myself from stirring the waters. I _could_, but…

"I thought you were off today, Captain," I say with a slight grin, and bow my head in feigned respect. For the first time, his eyes turn a color some shade deeper on the scale of masculinity. Must be the anger. I take my eyes off him, letting him swim in my sarcasm for second, while letting my eyes travel into the office he so pointedly stormed out of. She's at desk, eyes misty, chin in her hands. She catches my eye for split second and in that short time I have, I try to decode her eyes. But they're telling me nothing – they're a faded green and not angry, not sad, not happy, they just _are_. Which in all honestly just confuses the shit out of me. I mean, at least an _emotion_ I could understand. It's when people so effortlessly appear to be untroubled in a fucked up situation that I start to actually worry.

Miller's impending shadow diverts my attention, and my thoughts.

"What, do you have like a goddamned radar detector?" he throws his hands up, almost in surrender. Perhaps even though he'd had the last word at the diner, I'd done enough to wound his pride. "You get a chip implanted in her neck? What about her car, Boscorelli, should I check it for GPS?"

I just fold my arms, doing a damn good job at pretending to be completely calm and unscathed, as he continues firing, looking almost panicked that I haven't answered.

"I think you need to brush up on your statutes. Stalking is a felony," he informs, and I'm so tired of having that thrown at me – by him, by Ma, by Wolf – that I think I might snap, but, miraculously, keep cool.

"I think you're forgetting where you are in this hierarchy, _Officer_," he snarls, leaning closer. "I wouldn't have to break a sweat to get you transferred."

His words actually unsettle me. My only incentive to go to work is the occasional crime scene I get to tape off for her. That and the thought of getting a third partner just makes me want to heave.

"You're bluffing," I accuse, snapping my head up.

He lets out a cackle, or some equally disturbing laugh, and shakes his head, "Try me."

With that he spins around and continues his angry rampage through the house, down the stairs, and, hopefully, outside. I stand, slightly fazed, before proceeding forward into the office. She's still sitting – her position different now only because her head is no longer propped up by her hands. Instead, she's staring down, disinterested, at a stack of papers. Even I can tell she hasn't _actually_ read a single word.

I lean against the doorjamb, swallowing hard as I work up the nerve. "What was that about?" I finally ask.

She snaps her head up and then back down, and we make only fleeting eye contact, but it's enough to make me raise my hands in surrender without her saying a word. The emotion has returned.

She resumes her pretend-to-be-reading charade; I continue lingering by the door contemplating my next move. Fortunately, she breaks the silence.

"How long are you gonna stand there?" she looks at her watch. "Shouldn't you be on patrol?"

I grit my teeth. It's all it's been for the past six years – our fateful run-ins and clashes – she always had something to say about what I was doing, what I didn't do, could've done, or should be doing. I want to shake her. I want to ask her to explain what _she_ is doing. Specifically, what she's doing to _me_.

I just shrug and shove my hands in my pocket, physically unable to find the will to walk away. "Were you fighting?" I question.

"You want us to be?"

I widen my eyes in question and she shakes her head. "I mean, that would make you happy, right? To know that you succeeded in putting us at odds. That was your goal, right, Bosco?"

Well obviously I don't want them to fight. Not if it means she gets hurt or pissed off. I just want him gone. But if it would kill her, then I don't. It's frustrating, really. I just wish he'd never been in the picture to begin with. I know that's not possible, so I resort to thoughts of equally implausible scenarios that might provide his lack of involvement with the absence of any ensuing heartache, like, for instance, him falling off the face of the earth.

"That wasn't my goal," I defend. So, maybe it was to a degree. But what's a white lie between partial strangers?

"Whatever," she waves me off, pauses, and then continues. "We were fighting because I saw you two at the diner. He told me it was _your_ idea to meet. Is that what you two do now, have covert discussions behind my back? What did you talk about, Bosco? Me?"

I scoff inwardly. What the fuck else do we have in common?

"It's not like me and you can," I start, in protest, and I'm referring to the whole 'covert discussions' thing. Because apparently we can't talk anymore without her rushing to him and divulging _everything_. I long for the days when we talked and it was truly just between us. "He told me…you told him about the bridge and—and the truck."

"He asked where I was," she justified, shrugging. "God forbid I tell the truth, Bos."

"He's a control freak," I observe spitefully, but she ignores me. "What else did you tell him?"

I watch her raise two tentative to her lips because she knows immediately what I'm referring to.

"He'll get over the truck. Talked him out of pressing charges," she says slowly, and her voice trembles. "But he's not _that_ forgiving."

I watch as she approaches and then announces, "Do me a favor, Bosco? Don't talk to my husband again."

For the first time since I walked through the door, we look at each other for more than few seconds. Her eyes are a conflicting combination of animosity and sadness, and it's now that I realize there's a better chance of the ghost of Maritza Cruz to pass by and wish me a happy birthday, than there'll ever be of me winning back my partner.

With those last words, she pushes by me and disappears into the hall. When I finally turn, I'm greeted by an exaggerated sigh. Wolf has found his way to the top of the stairs, arms folded, and by his expression he's been standing there long enough to be guilty of shameless eavesdropping. He stares back at me, disappointed, tossing his hands up.

"Well," he declares. "That went even worse than I thought it would!"

--------------------- //

"Coffee's coming right up, boys."

The waitress' voice is happy and promising and she spins around effortlessly on one heel and heads toward the kitchen.

"Thanks, Amber," Wolf mumbles for the two of us. I've never said much more than that myself, and lately, I've resorted to a simple nod and a weak smile. It's hard not to at least do that - Amber's enthusiasm is like the flu. Has been for the past six years when we first met her. She was hardly sixteen then, and that 'enthusiasm', at first, was kind of an annoying carefree teen spirit that, coupled with our solemnity and mounting issues, just didn't mesh well. But, over the years, it was no longer overflowing, and her good mood was actually refreshing. Especially since the diner wasn't far from a complex that me and Wolf had long-termed Domestic Central. Our glum, almost morbidly-depressed expressions when we'd have to dash from our table, leaving behind a plateful of perfectly good food to go tear some punk off his bleeding girlfriend, was enough to convert even Ty Davis, Jr. to full-blown Sully-pessimism. (Although I think we'd all succeeded in doing that to him long before he and Finney took off for anti-crime.) But, it was never enough to make Amber frown with us in empathy. Which, like I pointed out, was obnoxious at first, but after a while, it was nice to see someone who still had hope. I mean, even after all the crap we made her listen to, hell, she could be a god damned psychiatrist if we could give out a degree. But yeah, hope...I could sure as hell use it now.

Me and Wolf wander toward our usual back table and sit down, sighing in relief as we free our feet of our weight. I stare across the room at where I sat just this afternoon during my unsuccessful attempt to unsettle the infamous John Miller. Ego intact, I wouldn't exactly call it completely unsuccessful, but it didn't go down the way I planned. What ever did, though?

I break my eyes off the table, blinking away anger as Amber marches up to deliver coffee. Not like I go even the hottest summer day without the crap, but its prime weather for it now. The sun set hours ago and it's so fucking cold outside if it rains it'll for sure snow. I never used to mind the snow.

I hear Wolf ask Amber something, but as usual, my thoughts are louder than his words. Her excited response finally breaks in, and she yanks her right hand up in the air, splaying her fingers to display a ring, glinting with several tiny diamonds. It's just the other reminder I needed to catapult myself back in time, but I hold off long enough to congratulate her.

She shrugs and looks down at the ring all at once, still smiling ear-to-ear and damn near shaking. If I didn't know her I might predict she'll throw up flowers at any second. I'm happy for her though. I mean, it's not the most expensive engagement ring in New York, but she probably wouldn't be working at some seedy Bedstuy diner across from Domestic Central since she was 16 if her high school sweetheart could afford any more.

But I confess, I'm bitter. I don't know where I see her in ten years, but it isn't a storybook ending. Maybe it's in divorce court, or amidst some messy custody battle like Faith had to go through. The more I think of the possibilities, the grimmer they become: the edge of a bed at Mercy, or in a bag off of Lafayette. But somehow neither me nor Wolf can bring ourselves to make some predestining remark, if only because it would be a tragedy to ruin her unbridled bliss, however short-lived it might ultimately turn out to be.

"No kiddin'," I say, and she just continues to nod and smile, twirling the ring around and around. She finally shrugs and drops her arm back to her side before mumbling something about our orders and prancing off again.

Wolf has already turned to me, prepared to try to evoke the latest excuse for why I'd rebelled against his advice and interfered once again, leaving a section of the House in turmoil at the start of the shift. But he's too late by a fraction of a second. The possibility of snow and the revelation of Amber's ring have activated that catapult, and suddenly I'm not in the diner anymore.

There had been a blizzard warning that day…

--------------------------- //

**5 Years earlier - ****January 19, 2006**

I pulled my black leather jacket tighter around myself, but does little to warm me. Ma had told me it was freezing outside. She'd told me all about some blizzard, but we'd had a lot of false alarms and some uncharacteristically-warm days lately at random intervals, so I wasn't about to pull out the fur or anything. Especially when I made it clear to her I wasn't even going to be out for long.

"Fine," she'd said, as she was bundling up for what looked like the Iditarod, or Alaska at least. "If you want to be a bastard and make a fool of yourself, fine. But she's a good friend and I'm going with or without you."

I'd told her 'fine' and shrugged, and eventually wound up outside the doors of the chapel anyway, the blizzard-indicative weather attacking me through my thin jacket. I cursed her for always being right. I glanced at my watch. I was early by about thirty minutes. I told myself it was because I wasn't actually planning on going to the event in question, but I knew it was because I was going to try to play on whatever slim chance at redemption there might be. It was last second, alright, but I confronted her months ago about the man. _They_ were the ones jumping on the marriage wagon so god damned soon. I had even had the impudence to play the guilt card – ask her how confusing it must be for Em and Charlie. That had only earned me a teary glare and a sudden slap on the face before she'd stormed out.

I backed against the brick wall. Getting married in a church seemed incredibly boring to me, and even through all my panicked thoughts and my struggle to keep my body temp from plummeting, I still managed to note how unexciting the prospect was, especially to her, who, I knew, would never have chosen something so everyday and mundane. But I heard she'd settled to avoid further disputes about the conflicting religions from her family and his. _Settle_. The spiteful part of me, at times, thought that's what she was doing. The realistic part of me prayed she would do just that: settle...for me.

I tossed my cigarette onto the concrete, new evidence of my now seven-month addiction, and heaved the heavy door open.

She was down the hall shooing away friends and guests and the dreaded mother who was prying and preening and freely divulging unsolicited advice. Her tone was annoyed. I waited until the crowd stopped muttering and slowly parted, scattering off to form the later audience, to creep up and lean against the doorjamb.

While I reveled in the newfound warmth of the building, where while my attire wasn't suited for a wedding, it was definitely better for the temperature, my existence was all too quickly acknowledged. I cringed because I wasn't sure if she could still sense me, or if she had, indeed, used the mirror she was standing before. She was struggling to force in ridiculously-adorned earrings.

"Hey," she greeted, and I saw her eyes in her reflection light up for a second, before she frowned at my outfit - more specifically, my jeans and t-shirt, the latter not concealed at all underneath my open jacket.

She didn't need to point out everything that was wrong with my wardrobe or what had caused the dress code to somehow be translated into "casual" attire, I had an answer waiting.

"I'm not here for the wedding," I told her dryly, noting she had stopped mid-earring-insert and held her hand up, frozen.

I shook my head in slow confirmation, pouting unintentionally.

"Oh..." she mumbled.

That confrontation about him hadn't been the most civil, but it had been months ago, and we'd been on decent terms since. I mean, no worse than when we left the 5-5. I guess all my opposition to the marriage itself had been something I basically harbored inside. I suppose I only hoped I didn't have to actually tell her – I guess I hoped she would just know.

"What are you here for, then?" she asked, turning around, her tone growing cold. I'd never been outwardly supportive either. I guess, on the outside, I just looked impartial, or numb.

I shrugged, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. Hell if I knew. I mean, what could I really change in...twenty minutes? Fortunately, the situation lent an opportunity for stalling, though in a depressing way.

"It's...uhm...beige-ish?" I stuttered. I wasn't even sure if beige-ish was a word but it was all I could think of.

She looked confused, finally following my gaze down to her dress, and then shrugged.

"Yeah, so?"

I shrugged myself. "So, you told me it would be white," I said simply.

"When?"

"I don't know. Like, after Fred left. You just used to say if it was the right thing, it would be...it would be white. You couldn't imagine it any other color. It had to be white. Like snow."

"Maybe I wanted to wear my mother's," she offered in a weak defense.

I snorted, "Maybe this isn't the right thing."

--------------------------------- //

"You in there?"

Wolf's voice finally cut in, and his hand is waving frantically in front of my face when I snap out of my daze. He stares at me knowingly as I shake my head and shake away the memories. I can tell he has something to say, something somewhat less understanding, but instead he just stands up and pats my shoulder.

"Come on," he urges, tossing Amber's tip down the table. "The apartment complex next door has reported a very rare familial disturbance. Want us to check it out."

His words actually elicit a grin and a dry laugh from me as I stand up, shaking my head and following him to the door. Amber comes up behind us and before she heads toward the cash register, I reach out for her arm.

"Congrats," I tell her, because I realize my previous congratulatory comment was lost in a half-hearted sea of flashbacks, and I feel bad. "Really."

She nods gratefully, smiling again to reveal a perfect set of teeth. It's almost confusing how easily smiling comes to girl. I know her life hasn't been a walk in the park.

"Just make sure it's the right thing," I add, leaving her to tilt her head at my words, her smile fading. Then I rush to catch up with Wolf and we head off to Domestic Central.


	4. Part 4: Old Habits

**The Right Thing 4/?**

**------------------------- //**

"You all right?"

Wolf's typically concerned-and-somewhat-irritated tone breaks in, effectively preventing me from watching the wedding day continue to unfold. I should thank him, actually. No reason to relive the mess. Once was enough.

"What?"

He makes some weird hand gesture, "I said, are you all right? You haven't said a damn thing the whole end of the shift."

"Yeah. Great," I reply numbly. Resigned, he turns back to the road and nods.

"Happy Birthday…by the way," he says, and I glance up surprised at first because I've almost forgotten. Then I see a grin form at the corners of his mouth and I scowl because I know he didn't just wish me a happy birthday because he's decent like that. Well, he is. But Ryan Wolf is also a sarcastic son of a bitch.

"Shut up, Wolf," I mutter before he can say anything. But I'm too late.

"You're how old again?" He squints as if he doesn't know. _Bastard._

"Don't start," I warn, as he pulls up to the House.

"Hey, you're still in the game, Bosco, you're just climbing the hill. But…"

"But what? I can still kick your ass," I threaten, tearing my seatbelt off and stumbling out the door, he follows, laughing hysterically.

----------------------------------- //

My apartment is pitch black when I step in, shutting the door and locking it behind me before I even turn the lights on. There's blankets piled up at the end of couch, evidence of the inability to sleep, which led me to wander out of my room and finally succeed to the sounds of some retarded infomercial. The coffee table is bare, aside from a couple empty bottles – and I mean empty - , a pack of cigarettes, and well-used ash tray that I've discovered takes too much effort to empty.

I guess the table's not all that bare.

Sighing, I toss several envelopes next to the bad habits and head for the kitchen. The fridge, unfortunately, provides nothing but a single bottle of beer and I already know it's not enough to get me through the night. I snatch it anyway and retreat to the couch, turn on the TV and half-heartedly mill through the countable number of letters.

A utility bill. Overdue.

Spam. Snail-mail spam, no less. Who knew?

A credit card application. I scoff. Someone thinks I need more debt, apparently.

I glance up at the TV screen and then back down to the remaining letter.

_Davis + Sasha_, is all it says for the return address. I can tell by the handwriting that it wasn't actually Davis who wrote that.

Frowning, I start to open it.

I left the house only twenty minutes earlier, gratefully denying Wolf's offers to go get a drink. Which was kind of ironic since he seemed so vehemently against my drinking habits. Guess since it was my birthday he figured he'd let it go. When I declined he suddenly decided he was hungry. Again, I'd refused. He'd stared at me, thoroughly concerned.

"Look, I'm not gonna kill myself if that's what you're worried about," I'd told him, shoving my hands into my pockets and turning to leave. At midnight, the sun was long gone and the temperature had plummeted, so I hoped I didn't have to stand there in the cold too much longer, trying convincing him of my satisfactory emotional state.

"I'm not worried about that," he'd called out, causing me to stop because his voice was uncharacteristically quiet and meaningful. "I'm just worried."

I'd turned around to stare back at his shadowy figure, darkened even more by the nighttime. "I'm okay, Ryan," I'd assured.

My tone probably wasn't fooling either of us, but it was as genuine as I could get for someone who was, indeed, self-destructing. I also hoped calling him by his first name would make me somehow sound more valid or believable, since I never called him that unless: a) I was extremely pissed, or b) I was being blatantly, atypically honest. Hell, come to think of it, nobody ever called him by his first name. It just never stuck, or something. He didn't look like a "Ryan", either. With his jet-black hair, black eyes, and fierce-looking features, he looked more like an actual wolf.

"Fine," he'd said reluctantly. "I'll see you tomorrow." With that he'd backed off slowly, as if waiting for me to reconsider and start shouting out that I wasn't 'okay'. But instead I turned and walked off, feeling somewhat guilty. At thirty-one, he had more important things to worry about than me. Hell, I'd compromised his job a few times already. Even fucked things up between him and a girl once because I thought I'd seen her cheating. No one told me she had a twin sister. So she didn't exactly turn out to be a twin when Wolf confronted me, but they looked close enough that my fucked up sight eliminated the little difference there was.

So, feeling like a burden, I'd walked off. I laugh, thinking about all the hell I've caused him over the years. Trivial stuff, some of it, but still. Sighing, I glance down at the letter, half-opened in my hands. I unfold it. Turns out I'm no graphologist, because from what the scrawled text says, Monroe definitely didn't write this:

_Bosco, my man. How long's it been? I'm tying the knot. I can't believe it. When I was younger If I'd seen me now…hell…I think I'd have wanted to get married younger, you know? I feel old, man._

I cough, choking and sputtering on my beer. _He_ feels old?

_But now that it's actually happening, I sometimes hope I'm not rushing into it or anything. I told Sully and he said 'It's about time'. I guess he's right, huh? Well Sasha's getting all formal on me and sending out these overpriced, over-garnished_

Over-garnished???!

…_wedding invitations to everyone at the 5-5. I keep telling her it's a waste of money. I mean who pays for paper when you could just write it or call the person? I guess I should just leave that planning crap to her. ……Damn. Six years? Don't know if it seems like it's been longer or shorter or what._

I slow down, glancing at several lines that have been fiercely scribbled out with the same black pen. Spelling error, I figure. Then, a few lines below, he continues:

_How's Bed-Stuy treating you? I heard about the promotion after we left the 55th. I know why you didn't take it, but you deserved the option, you know? I got to tell you, anti-crime still feels weird some days even after all this time. Brendan Finney started rotating shifts after his kid was born so I don't work with him as much as I used to. I kind of miss the stability, you know? Just me and Sul, the beat. He said he talked to you recently. We keep in touch more than I thought we would. It's all good._

_I'm getting way off track, Bosco. Come to the wedding, okay? It's on the 17th at five. You know where to find us._

_Take care,_

_Davis._

_P.S. Sully told me. I'm sorry. _

My eyes sting as I they fall on his last-minute addition to the letter. I stare at those words a while longer, then glance up at the rest – in black, partially-smeared pen, written uncertainly and at a gradual angle on an NYPD letter-head. I'm unprepared when a single tear drips down, landing on the paper and instantly bleeding the ink. I blink wildly, fold the letter up and toss it down, then frenetically wipe my eyes. I'm not crying. I _don't_ cry. I _can't_ cry.

But it's a useless, futile attempt to abort what I can, and do, do. And often, at that. The tears are hot and unrestrained and they scathe my face as I stand up and start pacing like a madman. When that fails to help, I heave my half-empty bottle against the wall. The sound of glass shattering violently and spraying all over the floor somehow makes me feel a little better, and I figure that's probably not a good thing. The tears cloud my eyes, but I can, miraculously, still make out my keys in a small, shiny heap, and I grab them and rush out.

----------------------------------- //

"What are you doin' here, baby? It's almost one thirty in the morning."

"Is that unusual?" I ask, narrowing my eyes to adjust to the light that illuminates the front steps.

"For you to come to the bar, no. Here? Yes."

I grin bitterly and look down, stuffing my hands further into my jeans as if it might possibly keep me warmer.

"If you're looking for more means to get wasted, forget it. I won't help hurt yourself, Maurice," my mother stands firmly and folds her arms.

"I'm not, Ma…" I insist. "I just…wanted to see you."

I notice how she seems to be guarding the door, so I glance around her suspiciously until the possibility settles on to my shoulders.

"Is he here?" I ask, quietly at first, as I struggle to see who the shadow in the background belongs to. It doesn't take me long to make out the identity. "Is he here?" My voice is higher, more panicky. "Ma? Are you _kiddin'_ me?"

"Maurice…"

"No!" I shriek, watching him come into view. He mumbles something before his eyes fall on me and immediately darken. Hatred soars up into my throat and I lunge, stopped only by the screen door that my mother pulls shut.

"Maurice, stop!" she scolds, backing up.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" I yell, staring him down. "Tell him to leave!" I demand, shifting my eyes. "I want him to leave_, now_!"

Ma just stares dejectedly down at the floor, "No, Maurice," she says, "I'm not going to make him leave!"

"Come on," he starts, moving closer to the screen. "Why don't you come in?"

"You shut up!" I seethe. "Ma…how can you do this? How can you let him in here…into your life…after…after everything he did? After…Mikey?"

"Don't bring your brother into this!" Her head shoots up and she glares back, hurt in her eyes. But what about me, I think? What about _Mikey?_ What about _us_?

"He killed him, Ma!" I shriek. My voice shakes but I hardly acknowledge it. I stare at my dad accusingly. "He killed Mikey!" He just stares back through steely eyes.

"Maurice, stop! He had nothing to—"

"Yes he did! Mikey was dead long before he ever got killed, Ma. Because of _him_," I turn to give my dad a deadly glare. I can tell he's pissed. "What are you gonna do, Dad?" I taunt. "Beat me up? Right here? Now? Go ahead."

"Okay," Ma cuts in, "Maurice stop it! Leave!" she tugs on his arm, "Anthony, leave it…come on…"

I shake my head at the display as she turns him around and starts to shut the door, stopping to stare back briefly and wistfully.

"I can't believe you," I say, backing up and shaking my head, my voice tear-ridden. "I can't believe you."

----------------------------- //

I stare blankly ahead, ignoring the freezing air as it attacks me. It's still out – not windy or anything, but I'm walking fast toward the familiar apartment building. The air inside is warm and I greet it appreciatively, but don't smile. I'm too pissed to do that. Too unnerved, too sad, too disappointed. I take the elevator to the third floor and blindly make my way to the door, my fist stopping short just before I knock.

What am I really supposed to say? That I have no one else? That all my options have run out? That my mother chose her cheating, lying, abusive bastard of a husband over both of her sons? That my partner chose some glorified detective she'd known only eight months over me? I feel even more desperate repeating it all in my head, and in a desperate fashion, I reach forward and bang impatiently on the door, almost instantly regretting it.

Maybe I'll feel better about myself if knock again – even more impatiently. So I do. Maybe I'll feel more like I have other things to do, and less like I couldn't walk away from the door even if my life depended on it. But I all I get for my effort is a pissed off shout from the other side.

Wolf's voice is loud and annoyed and I hear his hurried footsteps as he approaches, "Hold on, God damnit!"

That only makes me feel like shit.

The door swings open, letting a warm blast of sweat- and cologne-laden air flood the hallway. I look up to meet his eyes – dark and excessively black to the point that his pupils are either non-existent or massively dilated. It almost makes him look dangerous, but I know he's anything but.

"Hey," is all I say, my tone soft and, possibly, even ashamed.

"Bosco…sorry," he starts, stepping aside so I can enter. "But damn man, you knock like a Nazi."

I shrug and smile weekly, "Sorry," I mumble as I wander into his kitchen. He passes me, tossing a towel from his shoulder to his glistening weight bench, proof that it's been used recently and religious. It makes me think bitterly about the one I used to own. The one I quit using. The one that, I, in a fit of rage, threw piece-by-piece over the fire escape after not-so-coming to terms with the fact that I couldn't bench what I used to.

"Come on, man, spot me," he calls, lying back on the bench. I glance over at him, at the ridiculous amount of weights he has on each side, with a tinge of jealousy.

"Looks like you're doing fine there yourself," I snap, watching as he begins lifting furiously and almost effortlessly. I stalk to the fridge and pull it open, rummaging around for something alcoholic.

"I'm not stupid, Bosco," he calls, not looking up. He takes several shallow breaths and keeps lifting, keeps talking. "Your mom called."

"She called?" I ask, but I continue to pillage the fridge and cupboards.

"Yeah, said you left her place all pissed off," with that he settles the bar down and sits up. "Thought you might show up here so I ditched the scotch. Don't keep much of that shit around anyway."

"Yeah, why's that," I ask, disinterested, surveying the rest of the kitchen for any sign of the bottle. How the hell he has the will power to moderate his intake with the shit we see every day is beyond me. I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with me being on the force eight years longer than him. That and all the other shit that isn't exactly unfolding on my behalf.

"Excessive drinking leads to the inability to…"

"I get the picture, Wolf!" I say, nodding astutely and turning around. "Just let me have a little, man. I need it."

"I'm just sayin'," he informs. "Causes sexual side effects."

"Yeah," I nod sarcastically. "Because I'm having a lot of that."

"Whoa," he stands up and pretends to push my remark away. "More than I needed to hear."

"You're tellin' me," I sigh. I toss my hands up in defeat. My search has turned up zilch. In a last effort I run my hand over the top of the fridge, even though I later realize nothing alcoholic could really hide up there. And I'm not about to resort to Scope like a post-Tatiana Sully. Still, I check. A dozen or so packs of unopened cigarettes fly from the side and scatter onto the tile. I stare down and frown, noting that not only are they unopened, they're New York Cuts.

I sneer, "I didn't think you smoked."

"I don't," Wolf replies, glancing at the packs and then looking away guiltily.

"Yeah? No kidding," I bark, shaking my head. "These are mine. I should've known. Locker items don't just spontaneously combust or disappear, right?"

"Look, Bosco," he continues. "I'm not sorry. I was trying to help you. I still am. I'd just grab what I could when you weren't looking and toss them up there. I didn't throw them away because eventually I wanted you to see how many packs you go through."

"I go through them because you keep stealing them! You think because you take a few every now and then I'm not gonna buy more? That's the most retarded theory I ever heard, Wolf. Even for you."

"Actually, on our salary? It's entirely plausible."

I just glare at him and storm past into the living room, leaving the packs behind me.

"Come on, Bosco!" he calls, following. He's always persistent like this. "You've been coughing nonstop for years! If you don't die of lung cancer you'll go out like Jack Cassidy!"

I collapse onto the couch and try to ignore him but again, he's made an inarguable point.

"You want that, Bosco?" he challenges, sliding to a neighboring chair.

I don't answer. He mumbles "fine".

"I left Ma's because…she went back to him," I say softly, and almost sadly, breaking our short-lived silence. I feel his eyes shift toward me but I stare straight ahead, my eyes falling partially on his TV but not seeing.

"You're dad?" he asks rhetorically.

"I don't file him under that category anymore," I inform, still refusing to meet his gaze. "He's dead to me."

From a blurry corner of my eye I make out him nodding, "So…again? I thought she did last year and then he just left her?"

"Yeah. She did. And then he got bored, ran out, and came back knowing she'd let him in," I shake my head wistfully. "It's like…it's like…she doesn't care what he was or is. And Mikey…hell if him dying didn't make her go crawling to him. I don't get it. I don't her."

"Maybe she's just lonely," Wolf offers after a few seconds. I finally turn to see him staring back questioningly.

I shrug and shake my head, leaning forward. "No…no. There's not enough loneliness in the world to go back to someone like him."

Wolf sighs. I figure he didn't count on having to hear me complain about my crappy childhood _after_ our shift.

"Yeah, but it's familiar to her," he defends. "You know, people go back to what's familiar, Bosco. They go back to what they know, to what they're used to, to what's comfortable. But… that doesn't mean it's the right thing."

I glance up again, and somehow I get the feeling he's not exactly talking about Ma anymore. His words suddenly anger me. The hell does he know what the right thing is for me? I leap up.

"Why do you that?!"

"Do what?!" he shrieks.

"Always lead everything back…make it about me!"

"This is about you, Bosco! You're slowly killing yourself," he lowers his voice. "And everyone at the House is just watching it happen. You want your mom to have to bury you, too?"

I smile bitterly and run my hand over my face. My eyes threaten to close, but I'm wired at the same time. I guess it could be the contradictory combo of no sleep and unfavorable amounts of caffeine.

"Probably be doin' her a favor," I mutter, staring intentionally up into a light on the ceiling, allowing it to burn my eyes. I heard Wolf rise to his feet.

"What?"

"I mean," I clear my throat and shrug. "She told me to leave. She doesn't…wanna see me anymore."

"Maybe she doesn't wanna watch you do this to yourself anymore. You think of that?"

"Or she just doesn't give a shit anymore," I suggest, and my pool of self-pity widens. Still, it doesn't change the fact that I feel like I'm not worth her – or anyone's - concern.

"Yeah, or that," Wolf snaps sarcastically. "She just doesn't care, Bosco. That's it."

"It's entirely plausible," I say, mocking him.

He glares back and then turns, "I'm taking a shower," he tosses a dismissive hand behind him.

"Then why do you?" I call out softly, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he stops just short of the bathroom door. "Why do you care so much?"

"I don't know," he responds equally as quiet, shrugging.

I continue nodding to myself long after he disappears and shuts the door behind him. I wander back to the couch and collapse, letting my knees assume the weight of my arms, and my hands the weight of my face. I envision my mental checklist of people I used to have. People I could talk to – go to when I had no one else. I watch myself scratch each name off. The list's short to start with, so it immediately dwindles. I lean back, but not before stealing a glance at a nearby clock. 2:42AM it reads. It'll be a miracle if I'm asleep before 4. I sigh - The whole list idea is depressing. Through the wall, the steady hum of the shower is all I hear. And somehow, before I close my eyes, it makes me realize there's someone I haven't checked off just yet.


	5. Part 5: Hopeless

**The Right Thing PART 5**

* * *

"I don't understand why you're always tryin' to drag me out after work, Wolf," I whine. I'm sitting on the edge of his couch, leaning over to tie my shoelaces. "God, I mean, don't you ever get freakin' tired?" 

It's a fake question on my part. I know exactly why he tries to get me to go out. If I'm with him, I've come to discover, he figures I either can't drink, or he can at least moderate my intake. I'm also not left to my other vices like smoking, or dwelling to the point of morbid depression and insomnia.

"No…" he frowns, walking from the kitchen to the window. "I mean, yeah, of course I get tired. But it wouldn't kill you to be social now and then."

I scoff and smile indignantly down at the floor, "Social? So I have to go to some hick bar out in Jersey with you and your ten-fucking-years-ago-SC-State bachelor buddies so you can, what, revisit your southern upbringing? I'm sorry if it's not exactly what I consider 'a good time'."

I finish tying the last knot with taut finality and glance up to see Wolf glaring at me from next to the window. He looks almost offended. Of course, it takes a lot to make me feel bad, even more to determine if the reason for feeling bad is worthy of an apology, and by that time, it's usually too late.

"You know what?" he starts, with a tinge of hostility. _Yeah, too late._ "Just because I was raised in Georgetown, doesn't mean I have some drawl or that I hailed the Confederacy. I like blue skies and NASCAR, but other than that I'm about as Southern as you."

Blue skies? NASCAR? That's the most generic thing I've ever heard. Who the fuck likes gray skies?

"And you know what? You should brush up on your geography. You can get a little more down home than South Carolina."

"Rednecks," I persist, muttering.

* * *

"That's ugly as hell," someone shrieks from behind. I whirl around. 

"You're not helping, Wolf!" I shake my head and shove the suit back onto the rack rather violently, receiving a few disapproving glares from shop employees. I glare right back.

"Actually," he continues, "You know, it might look good. If you were like, a German in the 1920s. And it was snowing out. And you--"

"Okay, Wolf, I get it! It's ugly!"

"It's twill, Bosco!" he emphasizes, grabbing the material in disgust.

"Okay! Fine," I stalk off a few feet and sigh. "I can't believe I'm shopping, anyway."

Wolf laughs and looks around at the less-than-new building, "I can't believe this place is still open. And you're not shopping, you're renting." He notices that I don't look happy he's changed the subject. "Look," he rephrases. "I just don't understand why you had to wait until the last second. Or why it has to be a suit in the first place! The hell kind of wedding is this, anyway?!"

"It's not last minute. I got two weeks," I shake my head and toss up a hand, "And his fiancé is some kind of perfectionist. Who knows. She was OCD-ish or some shit even back when we rode together."

"OCD-ish. Nice," he nods sarcastically, still surveying the store and following me slowly as I eye rack after rack of suits that are either too big, too small, the wrong color, or, according to him, way outdated.

I sigh again, "Well? What are you wearing?"

"Me?" he widens his eyes.

"Yeah, you. You're coming, right?"

"I don't know, Bosco. I don't know these people. I'd just embarrass you."

I let out a half-cough-half-laugh and turn to face him, simultaneously pulling a simple-looking tux from the end of a nearby rack. "Trust me. I do that myself. But seriously, you have to come. I mean, you know Sully sort of, right? He'll be there."

He shrugs, "I guess. And Faith, she'll be there too so—"

I meet him with a hostile stare and he stops mid-sentence and holds his hands up in defense. "Sorry," he says softly, and directs his attention back down to the tux that I've momentarily forgotten about. "Looks good. Don't know how we've gone from twill suits to a tux, but looks good."

I manage to blink my way away from all the bitterness he's stirred up, to roll my eyes and agree. "Yeah, it's decent. I guess."

"Okay," he agrees. He looks more than relieved I've finally come to a decision. "Then get two. But only if this won't be some big, affluent, black-tie affair. I can't stand those."

"Affluent?" I look over my shoulder, askance, and with a slight grin. "They're a couple of civil servants, Wolf. No one's affluent around here, alright?"

"Whatever you say," he concedes, and I heave the two tuxes onto the counter as something, or someone, near the door catches his sight.

"Oh. My. God," I articulate, upon following his slightly-slack-jawed stare.

"I know," Wolf makes a quiet whistling sound. "She's hot, right?"

I scowl, not taking my eyes of the woman. The woman who's walking toward the center of the shop and clearly looking for something in particular. The woman who's tall, with wavy blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. The woman who hardly looks a day over twenty-eight, but unless her biological clock froze in 1999, has to be pushing forty.

"It's Nicole," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

"What you knew her?" Wolf's voice is distant. I don't know why I'm so shocked; so intrigued. It's as if I expected there to be zero chance of us ever running into each other. I figure if there were, we'd have done so more often. It's as if I expect, just because it's been so long, that she should be dead or something; that she should have moved far, far away.

I feel my partner staring me down for an answer, so I finally find it in me to explain. "I used to…date her," I say finally. I don't know how else to explain it. The memory's not that clear anymore. I think the only reason she even has a place in the back of my head is because of our less-than-pleasant break-up. It's really all I remember about her, and even just that? The details are sketchy. Maybe it's the neurological trauma from the shooting, but it occurs to me that even a reasonably uninjured person wouldn't really be expected to remember something from so long ago. Especially something that wasn't even good. But for some reason, I stand trying to evoke the memories. Not because it was good. Not because I want her back. But because it was familiar. If I tried hard enough, I could remember being back somewhere like that; somewhere familiar, where I belong, and where I knew the people and places.

Wolf covers his mouth and laughs. Again, I turn and scowl. "What you don't believe me?"

"No, it's not that," he says, his amused grin fading. "It's just…I've seen you with what? Like, five girls since you started at the 7-9. …Minus four."

"It was before that," I inform quietly, frowning at his sarcasm and looking from my feet, to the floor, and then back up to Nicole, who's made her way across the store and hasn't looked in our direction. Either that or she did and simply didn't recognize me. I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. I sure as hell don't look the same. I'm skinnier, now. Sunken. I look unhealthy, and I have the claims of the entire third shift to back me up on that one. There's a ragged, tortured patch of skin scarring the right side of my face. I never did bother getting it fixed or reduced or anything. Plastic surgeons charge out the ass and the last thing I wanted was more hospital stays, anyhow. Besides that, it didn't really bother me that much after awhile. It's noticeable, though, I know. Even more so than any other part of me that might evidence battles won and battles almost lost, like the knife-inflicted scars decorating my neck that I have to show for transferring to Bed-Stuy. Scars aside, there's random evidence of graying in my brown hair that also contributes to making me look my age, or, probably, even older. Nicole, on the other hand, looks hardly different from the last time I saw her, when she left me standing in front of my car, clothes falling out of a paper bag, outside the 55th. Everything before that is too vague to describe.

"How long, Bosco?" Wolf's voice breaks in, and it sounds like he's been asking several times. "How long ago?"

"Oh," I shake my head. "Umm, God, I don't know. Like, eleven years or somethin'," and I stare back down at my feet because I know I shouldn't be surprised if she did see me, recognize me, and won't act like it. It's not like I'd remind her of an affable departure or anything.

"Damn," Wolf shakes his head.

"What?" I snap.

"Just…that's a long time," he shrugs, and then nods toward the counter, where the cashier is standing, and by the looks of her unpleased expression, has been for some time. I hand over my credit card, begrudgingly at that. I watch, depressed, as the cashier swipes it. With me shelling out this much money to rent tuxes, Davis and Monroe better be putting me in the pre-nup.

"Thanks," I mumble insincerely when she finishes, hands me my card and the bag. Wolf's attempt to get my attention in form of an innocent heightening whistle forces me to turn around. Nicole has migrated to the other end of the store and stands just a dozen feet or so away. I stare in her direction wistfully for a few seconds before plodding to the door. I'm not really looking back on her, specifically, but more on where seeing her takes me. Everything wasn't great back then, but it was better, and it was familiar.

Wolf catches up with me just as I let go of door and it threatens to swing back into him. "You're not gonna say anything?" he asks with incredulity.

"Why would I? It was a casual thing. You're actin' like we were married or somethin'."

He just shrugs because he knows there's no good reason. I sigh and head across the street in the direction of my car, "Like you said, it was a long time ago. I don't know her anymore. If she even recognized me she'd only remember the times I treated her like crap."

"You know what? I just realized something," he announces after we get in and turn the ignition. "Why I like you."

"I didn't know you did," I reply glumly, before tearing away from the curb and preparing for his ensuing remark. I glare back at him, because six years behind us tells me I'm about to hear something undoubtedly sardonic.

"You're so fucking optimistic."

* * *

**One week earlier**

_Cold. Like that day. _

_"Are you really thinking about transferring?" _

_A gruff voice pulls me slowly from my daze on the scenery, or lack of, and I draw my attention to the larger, older man in front of me. I see so much when I look at his grey eyes: trials, battles, fears, loss, hope…and maybe most significantly, age. His hair is grayer now, much like the stone building and the slick roads outside. He looks tired – exhausted, even – but it doesn't look rushed. What I mean is, it looks like it's been a long time coming. Maybe his whole career has caught up with him. At the very least, he can be grateful it didn't happen until his late 50s. _

_I'm another story. I rub my eyes fervently as if it'll rub away the red, and the pulsing pain. _

_"No," I say finally. "I mean, I used to think about it. Wolf used to say maybe it was a good idea. But I couldn't, Sul. I can't." _

_He nods perceptively, and I'm not sure if it's out of understanding or if he's simply accustomed to my stubborn tenacity. He sips his coffee. I think it's too hot out for coffee, so I take a long gulp of the Coke that has been sitting to my left, condensation dripping from it and pooling into a puddle on the table. _

_"I don't know, Sul," I mumble, feeling the need to further explain myself. "I couldn't work out of another House. It's been almost seven years here and sometimes I still don't feel…like I belong or something. I couldn't work with someone new. Besides, the hell would I go?" _

_Sully shrugs and looks down at the mug between his hands. "Hear the 9th could use a few veterans." _

_I scoff, "And some common sense." _

_He laughs. _

_"Where are they gettin' their rookies these days anyway?" _

_I grin and nod, "Yeah." _

_For several minutes we're both silent. The waitress walks over and silently refills Sully's coffee. _

_"Get your invitation?" _

_I blink. "What?" _

_"Ty and Sasha," Sully explains. _

_"Yeah, a while ago" I nod. "Can't wait," I say, my voice slipping to sarcasm. _

_He widens his gray eyes in question. _

_"What? Why?" his voice is sharper now, more forceful. He pushes his coffee aside. _

_I sigh. I sigh because I shouldn't need to explain it anymore. I sigh because of the God-awful memories her very name reminds of. I fold my hands in front of me and look my former-FTO dead in the eye. _

_"Because…let's see…I killed her unborn child, for one…." _

_Sully drops his head and sways it side to side, evidencing his disapproval at my negativity. "Bosco," he starts, almost with a dry laugh. "That was a long time ago." _

_"Well. I bet they haven't forgotten," I scoff, moving my once-stationary hands. We're both quiet, and then I continue. "I guess…I guess, the whole thing, Sul. Cruz. Donald Mann. Her," I shake my head. "I guess I haven't let it go." _

_"You gotta stop, Bosco. Move on. Stop carryin' this chip on your shoulder. They did. I did. …Well, I think I did," he shrugs and smiles. _

_I shrug in acknowledgement, but I know he silently accepts that it's harder for me to do that. There's so much about that day, about those few months, that I still don't know. That everyone has sealed up inside some clean little box with some kind of Boscorelli repellent on it. _

_"I'm tryin', Sul," I mutter, glancing around the place. It's cleaner and brighter than me and Wolf's diner. Than Amber's diner. But I don't like something about it. _

_"I know you are," he mumbles back. "But you have this tendency to do so in this not-so-gentle fashion. You're like Ty when he gets all passionate about crap, he goes overturning stones best left untouched." _

_"The hell does that mean?" I snap. _

_"It means, Bosco," he says sternly. "You'll go to this wedding, and you'll remember what year it is. And if you have half a brain cell you won't go digging up ancient history." _

* * *

"What are you thinkin' about?" Wolf's voice interrupts my mental replay.

"What?"

"You're looking all contemplative," he observes.

"Oh," I wave a hand through the air. "Sullivan. I talked to him last week."

Wolf nods, hardly taking his eyes off the road. "What about?"

"The wedding," I respond bluntly, reluctant to go into further detail. He stops asking questions and we fall into silence.

Silence, until I lean back heavily against the passenger seat with an exaggerated sigh. Wolf gives me an evil glare.

"What?'

"Nothing," I say lightly, though he knows full well that he drives slower than Sully did. Don't get me wrong, he can step on it when he needs to, but anything less than a 10-13 and it feels like I'm riding a tour bus through midtown. That or a float in the Macy's Day Parade – whichever happens to be slower.

"You want me to go Code-3? Well, it's not happening. I'm not rushing to get somewhere where all we'll be doing for the next six or seven hours is unraveling yellow tape and keeping hysterical onlookers at bay."

"I think canvassing is a marginal priority, Wolf," I offer, shrugging and looking out the window to avoid eye contact. I hate not driving, and he knows it. In fact, he frequently points out how he can count the number of times I've ever 'let' him drive on one hand, since we became partners. That was, of course, until I realized he could potentially (and probably most likely) physically overpower me and get full custody of the keys.

He grins and shakes his head, not looking in my direction. "I'm not stupid," he mumbles slyly. "She won't spontaneously combust, ok? Trust me."

I feel my jaw tighten and my teeth clench just at the slight mention of a mere gender. It's not out of anger, really, but more some kind of unnerving at his ability to read me. Not like I've been entirely subtle about it, but still.

"Honestly, Bosco, it confuses me. I mean, why you wait," he starts, and it shocks me a little at how quickly he goes into this rambling mode. Wolf isn't really that talkative, he was always kind of this yes-sir-no-ma'am-only-speaks-when-spoken-to kind of person. I mean, we could get going as far as conversations, but he was always low-key with his opinion. Or so I thought.

"What?"

"Like…" he takes a breath, glancing at me once and then returning his eyes to the road. "Ok. I'll just say it. It's hopeless. And, you know, I've known her as long as I've known you. Six years. That's kind of a long time. And I like her and all, and we're friends..."

"But?" I ask, casting an awkward stare his way. There is a 'but' coming, I can feel it. Somehow, though, I'm kind of distracted from any proceeding words by the whole 'hopeless' part.

"But…I know Miller, too. He seemed like a cool guy at first. And I don't know if him being a completely unabashed jerk is the result of you stalking – I mean protecting – his wife, but I don't like him anymore. And if he was like that before, and he still got put first? Then I don't know what to tell you, man… Except…if I had to take sides?"

"Not asking you to take sides, Wolf," I snap quickly and firmly. I have to stop him now, I can't listen to his take on things any longer, or I'll start questioning myself again.

"I was going to say I'd be on yours," he finishes quietly, and navigates the squad to a halt. I can see several others ahead of us, a detective car, and a CSU truck.

"And," Wolf continues, cutting the ignition but not getting out. "I don't think it's worth killing yourself over. I don't know, maybe it is," He throws his hands up. "I'm not you so I don't know. But I do know that you still have some people who actually care. I don't want to..."

"Wolf…" I cut him off, putting a hand up to stop him. This whole thing has gotten entirely too deep – oh, and too honest – for me. "…Thanks."

He nods and shrugs, and I can tell he's displeased with my less-than-receptiveness, though not surprised. He nods again and we both get out of the car and head toward the activity.

"What a mess," Wolf mumbles, shaking his head piteously at the display: two bodies, scalded beyond recognition, and melted remnants of garbage bags lay in a mangled heap a yard or so away. It's almost impossible to tell they're people, let alone determine the gender or some kind of identity. I shake my head and turn away from the sight, while Wolf continues to scrutinize and crime scene techs scurry around us, looking annoyed.

"Watching your steps, right, officers?" I hear an obnoxiously familiar voice and turn to find Wolf face to face with…

"Captain," Wolf acknowledges and bows his head in feigned politeness. "Yes, sir." He turns toward me and we both roll our eyes. I don't even try to conceal my look of utter disgust. In fact, I just grin when Miller approaches and glares at me with his notoriously smug face. I revel in the mere idea of disfiguring said face.

"Canvassed, yet?" he asks, taking an obvious glance at his watch.

"Since we just got here, I'd say…no," I shrug and look to Wolf who shrugs in agreement.

Miller cackles. "Then consider yourselves starting," he announces, his smirk fading into an authority-laden frown. "Try not to fuck up our crime scene on your way out of the tape—"

"John!" a scolding voice cuts him off – and loudly at that – overpowering even the rustle of passing techs and uniforms, and the chattering group of obnoxious onlookers, who are huddled so tightly against crime scene tape like its some kind of levy.

Miller looks immediately embarrassed and spins away from me. Faith is standing a dozen or so yards away, trying to control her blonde hair that is blowing mutinously in the breeze. Her hands are down at her side, almost in disappointment, and her expression laced with confusion and anger.

Miller turns back and looks from me to Wolf, "You're okay, Wolf," he stays in a low, attempting-to-be-threatening tone. "Don't let Boscorelli here pull you down."

Wolf seems pissed, but he doesn't get a chance to retort before Faith cuts in again.

"JOHN!!"

This time he turns around for good and heads in her direction. For a fleeting second, over his shoulder, I catch her eye. I can't read it from this distance, and before I know it, I blink and she's walked off at his side. They share hushed exchanges – almost repressed shouts – but I can't make out what their saying. I swallow hard and catch up with Wolf who has begun to wander toward our car.

"Son of a bitch," I think and don't realize I've said it aloud until Wolf looks back at me.

"Piece of work, huh?"

I nod.

"So where do you want to start?"

"Oh," I answer, shrugging, and looking toward the endless neighboring apartments. "I don't care. Up to you."

"Might as well start here, work our way up?"

"Works for me," I mumble, my mind elsewhere. I retreat to the driver's side, and he doesn't fight me for the keys.

"What exactly does she see in him again?" Wolf asks.

I scoff and shrug, throwing the RMP roughly into gear. "Beats the hell outta me."

* * *

"So you're really not coming with me?" Wolf has come up behind me, trying his best to look hurt. The door to the House slams shut behind us and we stand in the parking lot, the cool air meeting us. I glance at Miller's truck as it lurks in the shadows. 

"I don't think so," I reply, shaking my head. I almost forgot about his whole reunion thing. "Tired. Think I'm just gonna head home." God, I really suck at lying. Honest. I don't know why I try anymore.

"Like you sleep," Wolf mutters, passing me.

He looks disappointed. "You should go see your mom, then," he suggests finally. Okay, so maybe he's not disappointed. Maybe he figures since I won't go with him, it's somehow his responsibility to line up a babysitter for me.

"Why?"

"I don't know. 'Cause you haven't ever since you said she got back with your dad."

I roll my eyes, wondering if she's still with him, and if not, what new bastard awaits discovery.

"No, mainly because she called the House the other day. Said she couldn't get a hold of you at home…or your cell. Was worried."

"And you're just telling me now?" I stare him down for an answer.

"I did tell you, Bosco! Like twice! You're head wasn't there."

"My head wasn't there," I mock him as if he makes no sense and shake my head.

"Yeah, Bosco, exactly. Just like always. Like always you were thinking about something else. The past. The one freaking thing you can't fucking change. You can't change the fucking past, Bosco! And like always you weren't listening to me. Like always you were coughing. Like always you were hung-over. Like always, I backed you up anyway."

"You know what? Leave me the fuck alone, Wolf," I snap, stalking off suddenly toward my car, which is conveniently parked right beside his. His barrage of accusations follow me, piling into my brain along with everything else that enrages me.

"Oh, okay, Bosco," he snaps back sarcastically. "I'll do that. I'll just forget this downward spiral you've been in for the past…uh…_six years_!"

"Fantastic!" I shout, the same sarcasm present. Before he can continue, I slide into my Mustang and speed off. In the rearview mirror I watch him toss his hands up in defeat, and then, he's out of view.

* * *

_Man, I hate you found me here __  
__With whiskey on my breath __  
__I know I should be ashamed __  
__So much for those twelve steps __  
__He said "No, I know you're doin' your best __  
__For all you've been through, hey, I understand __  
__I only came here to offer you a friend __  
__You know she still asks about you __  
__And wonders how you're doin' and where you been..." _

_Tell her I'm in Tampa on the causeway, watching the waves roll in  
Tell her I'm in Aspen, in a cabin, finding myself again  
Tell her that I'm happy and I've moved on  
Better than I've ever been  
Just don't tell her that you saw me drowning in this bottle  
Trying to make her disappear  
Tell her I'm anywhere, anywhere but here  
_

I set down the bottle of whiskey haphazardly and it makes a clanging sound as it hits the countless other neighboring bottles and they all fall over. Four, or what look like two, roll off of the coffee table and crumble on the floor, joining the already-shattered It's hard to tell, really, everything is blurry. I don't remember how many I've had. All I know is that they keep falling, and I keep stumbling to get more, draining them, and then, more falling.

_How many does it take? __  
_  
I just want to be gone.

_Come join us on November 15th, 2011, for the wedding of Tyrone Davis, Jr. and Sasha Monroe. __  
_  
Davis told me to expect the invitation. I got it weeks ago. I don't know what's made me uncrumble it. I throw it back down as if it's just another bottle, not caring to see if or where it lands.

_Please RSVP._

Things got blurry at that line. The invitation takes me back…

_Please join us for the wedding of John Miller and Faith Mitchell. January 28, 2006. _

I notice what appears to be the outline of an old prescription bottle and an aspirin container. I grab both and wander aimlessly back into the living room and then in the kitchen in search of something to wash it down with.

_So blurry._

I stumble and grab the counter to steady myself, the cold bottle in my hand is laced with condensation and threatens to slip from my grasp. Clumsily, I fumble with the fridge door until it works successfully as a bottle opener. Then I empty the contents of the bottles into my hand and shovel as many into my mouth as I believe I can swallow at once.

They go down hard, the liquor burning ruthlessly as it cascades them down my throat. I stand in front of my couch and peer into the mirror, my reflection hauntingly distorted. For a second, I wonder if I'm hallucinating. I try to look around – try to shake myself of the sense of disconnectedness – but I find that only causes the room to spin. Slowly, at first, and then it speeds up.

_It's hopeless. __  
_  
Wolf's words come back to me.

_Hopeless._

_You can't change the fucking past. __  
_  
It's all too loud. Too loud and too fast. My head pounds harder with confusion, the room spins faster. Suddenly I'm not sure if I'm standing, I reach to brace myself but I'm too late. My stomach lands on what feels like the corner of a table. Over the voices, the faces, the words and the echoing, I hear glass rolling and breaking. Shattering. It doesn't seem to end.

_It's hopeless. _

I lay there, the sharp wooden corner pressing painfully into my abdomen, and clutch my head, desperate to stop the unbearable jackhammer-like pounding. Over it, I swear I hear a rushed knocking, but it sounds distant and almost imaginary.

_God,_ I gasp, trying to reach out for something to stabilize myself, but I find that I'm only pawing the air with futility. I take a deep breath and watch the blurriness fade into black.

-

_It would only break her heart __  
__If she knew the truth __  
__See, I told her when she left __  
__This was the last thing I would do __  
__Tomorrow I swear I'm startin' over again __  
__I've made it this far and I know how it ends __  
__But she doesn't have to find out where I am __  
__So if you see or hear from here again _

_Tell her I'm in Baton Rouge, Louisiana  
Selling cars five days a week  
Tell her I'm in Mobile, Alabama  
Getting back on my feet  
Tell her that I'm happy and I've moved on  
Looking better than you've ever seen  
Just don't tell her that you saw me drowning in this bottle  
Trying to make her disappear  
Tell her I'm anywhere, anywhere but here  
_


	6. Part 6: No One Needs to Know

**Title: **The Right Thing

**Part 6: **No One Needs To Know

**Author's note:** Things get a lot worse before they get better.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, sadly.

* * *

"_I tend to live in the past because most of my life is there." – Herb Caen_

**

* * *

**

My face burns. My throat burns.

_Where am I?_

The room is slowly de-blurring. Someone is slapping me. In the face.

"Are you in there? Come on, Bosco, wake the fuck up. Bosco! Wake up!"

I blink, and shove my partner's massive hand away from my jaw. "Christ on a crutch, Wolf! I'm fucking awake! Stop hitting me you son of a bitch!"

I glance around, struggling to focus as the place comes into view. Of course, that only makes it even blurrier in my right eye, so I stop concentrating so hard: It's my place. My apartment.

Two more faces are staring me down, shining pen lights into my already-fucked-up eyes. When they quit, I quickly determine their identity.

"Shepherd?"

"Bosco," the medic acknowledges. He's been here since I started at the 7-9, and probably fifteen years before that. He's short and graying and metro. He knows his shit though. Reminds me of Doc Parker, save for the metro part, and oh, he's white. But as far as taking his work as seriously as if every patient has the plague, and running around with a chip on his shoulder about stereotypes, then he's like, his freaking twin.

"Whose the new guy?" I frown and nod my head toward some kid standing timidly off to the side.

Shepherd shrugs, "New guy. Put me with him while Stan takes a few days. By the way, how's your head?"

"My head?" I wrinkle my nose and pain sears through my temple. It's like it knew we were talking about it, and it suddenly remembered that it was supposed to hurt.

"Yeah, you have a nasty head lac. Could probably use a few stitches there."

I shake my head, "No hospital," I turn to Wolf who is standing above me but looking away, avoiding me and all of the random, broken and whole bottles next to me, the opened and unopened letters strewn everywhere, and just the general state of complete disarray.

"You called 911?" I spit.

His eyes flash angrily when he turns, "No, Bosco, I came here and you were unconscious and somehow they just knew to show up!"

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm and shake my head wildly. "Well I'm not goin' to the hospital."

"Does he need to go?" Wolf turns to Shepherd, his eyes expectant.

The paramedic shrugs. "He swallowed aspirin knockoffs and prescription migraine meds with like, a gallon of alcohol, and needs stitches. I'd say he needs to go, Ryan. The question is, will he?"

"He will not!" I shout, sending my skull into a mad war with my brain. I wince.

"Yes, he will. I'll make him," Wolf grabs my arm. "Let's go."

"You can't make me," I argue, trying to weight myself to the floor, but Wolf is much stronger. And I'm fully aware of how childish and unreasonable I'm being. However, to be fair, he should know by now and understand my raging aversion to hospitals and being in them for any length of time.

Begrudgingly, I get to my feet.

"Want us to take him?" the new medic, who's done nothing so far but shine lights against my pupils, has suddenly and unfortunately discovered the reason for the existence of the human voice box.

"I'll drive him," Wolf states. "But thanks for coming."

Shepherd nods, following us out. "Just keep pressure on that," he motions to my head. I roll my eyes.

**

* * *

**

"I wasn't trying to, you know," I make a lame neck-slicing gesture with my hand. I'm sitting on the edge of a bed in a triage curtain while nurses and doctors rush around outside the automatic doors. St. Mary's Hospital is so packed again, as usual, that patients are lined up on gurneys in the corridor, spreading who-knows-what to who-knows-where. It's like a bad _ER_ episode.

Wolf is standing off to the side, trying to look nonchalant. I glare at him because he realizes how pointless it was to make me come here in the first place. Besides, if I bleed to death, it won't make a difference if I'm in an overwhelmed emergency room or my own apartment. Although, speaking of bleeding, that head lac Shepherd was up in arms about must have clotted because I took the damn gauze off three hours ago.

"Oh, no kidding," Wolf tilts his head sardonically. "What were you trying to do, then, see the tunnel?"

I shake my head not-so-victoriously, "You don't get it."

"What don't I get, Bosco? You swallowed a bunch of pills with a bunch of alcohol. Tell me your not gonna try to explain this!"

"You heard Shep, it was just aspirin. I had a headache. Besides, it's not like they were some narcotics!"

He throws his hands up in feigned surrender, "Oh, okay, then. Well if it's just aspirin, it's alright. Because that's a great combo. Fantastic."

I just stare at him, my eyes glazed. What am I supposed to say? I could repeat over and over again that I wasn't trying to off myself and he won't believe me. I'm not really even sure that I believe myself. Part of me can only think how much easier things would be if I just hadn't woken up at all.

I watch him spin around and walk toward the doors. "I'm finding a doctor," he announces.

"Good luck with that," I call.

**

* * *

**

**Three days later**

"Wedding's next week," I hear Wolf announce from the kitchen, almost excitedly, which is confusing given his previous complete lack of interest in attending. I roll my eyes, only because I know he can't see me.

"Don't remind me," I groan.

I hear him laugh and he walks slowly into view. "You're being pretty miserable about something you RSVP'D to," he studies me for a second and then shrugs. "I thought you liked Davis, anyway."

My head pounds. Again. It's been pounding at least once every hour for three days. That's how long it's been since my Bayer-Excedrin-Alcohol-induced head injury, or 'me trying to off myself' as Wolf calls it. St. Mary's had given me three sutures and hooked me up to a banana bag for four hours, then sent me on my way, but only after I'd convinced Wolf to convince them that I didn't need psych to come downstairs. I didn't need the department asking questions. It's bad enough that every year the lieutenant says to me, 'Still hittin' the target with those eyes?' And I remind him that I have 20/20 corrected vision, but I leave out all the details. When it comes down to it though, fortunately (or unfortunately?) for me, the 7-9 doesn't ask very many questions. If they did, I would have probably been out of there a long time ago. And Wolf is always available to corroborate my lies, despite how much he feels like he should instead be dragging me to therapy and AlAnon; although I tried the AA thing a couple years ago at his insistence and it didn't go too well.

I press on my temples, "It's not about Davis. I just..." I sigh, wishing he'd just dismiss the topic, but I know it's not like him to be flippant. "I don't want to deal with the past. Or Monroe."

He nods and I get the feeling that _he _gets the feeling I be all for changing the subject. At least for another eight days.

"You're going to work, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I say glibly. "And don't try to talk me out of it," I shake my head, almost in disgust at his persuasiveness. Sometimes I feel like if he really put his mind to it, he could convince me right off of a cliff. "You already made me call in twice. Do you know how long it's been since I took a day off?"

"Yeah, I do, that's exactly the point," he declares. "No offense or anything, but the department could manage without you for one more day, Bosco."

I grin and scoff, "But the question is," I say, ignoring the splitting pain in my head as I rise to my feet to meet him. "Can you?"

"I would live," he declares, folding his arms.

I can tell how much he wants me to stay, to sleep, to rest, to heal, to take it easy. But he's also my enabler and he wouldn't be himself if he didn't cave. As much as he knows what I_ need_ – professional help, an intervention, whitecoats, etcetera – what I _want_ will always triumph because apparently me being marginally happy does something for him that is better than the agony he'll go through trying to get me healthy. And believe me, I don't fight him on this one.

So I stare him down for a few seconds as if my entirely livelihood will be forever repressed if I am talked into another sick day, and soon enough he tosses his hands up and gives in.

"Fine," he says. "Let's go to work."

**

* * *

**

"Oh Christ," Wolf's disgusted voice echoes out sharply. "Fuck!" The comments only get worse. I'm not quite to the entrance of the corner store yet, but I have a pretty good idea what's in there with my partner. I half-collide into him at the door as he flees, hobbling on one foot, struggling to pull of his shoe.

"The hell, Wolf?!" I rub the shoulder he just slammed into on his hurried way out. I glare in his direction and then, answerless, head to the grim display inside. The body is twisted, half-concealed behind a shallow counter. There's at least a dozen bullet holes, but I see no casings.

My only reaction is to shake my head and turn back toward the exit. I reach deep into my pocket, retrieving cigarettes and a lighter. Wolf's back is facing me as I step outside onto the sidewalk, fumbling with the box in my hand.

"You stepped in it, didn't you?" I deadpan. I can't help it if all I can think of is how long we're gonna have to stand and guard the scene, or at best, interview witnesses like glorified news anchors with guns. I can't help it if all I can think is what a complete inconvenience it all is, that if this guy just hadn't gotten himself shot, I wouldn't have to canvas for the next four hours.

Wolf glances up, his face ablaze with guilt and disgust. "The blood was everywhere, Bosco. Before I even saw it!"

"Fuck," I mutter, inhaling deeply on the cigarette I've managed to light. "Crime Scene's gonna have our asses."

"The hell was I supposed to do?" he snaps defensively. "We have to clear the scene. Imagine if someone was still in there. Then we'd be getting shit for that, too. You can't fucking win, Bosco."

"I know," I shrug, my voice lacking any tangible emotion. I take another exaggeratedly-long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs. It reminds me of how 'bad my lungs sound' according to the doctor last time I was there. Oh and that he'd really wanted 'to take some chest films', but I had adamantly and probably unpleasantly refused. Besides, I'd been in for, by every definition, a suicide attempt and not a check-up. I couldn't even kill myself _now_, the hell did it matter if I did it in thirty years? I shake my head at my thoughts and sort of laugh coldly. "I don't really care, anyway," I continue, "I'm just saying, you know, they'll be pissed."

"Well screw them," Wolf barks, struggling to pull his shoe back on. It's still slick with blood, only now, that's all over his hand too.

"Amen," I nod astutely, staring ahead as I survey the sidewalk, street and the growing crowd lingering a few dozen yards away. Then, like clockwork, more join them. Their like carpenter ants, actually. They see the yellow tape and one-by-one in shocked succession they all gravitate toward the scene. Then the cars show up. More RMPs, some unmarkeds, and CSU. I take a sharp breath to prepare myself for dealing with the living public. I think it would be much easier with the dead. Hell, sometimes I feel like I can relate better to them anyway.

Wolf follows the direction of my eyes and groans, "Here come the fish," he sighs.

I nod toward a Channel 6 News truck, "And the sharks."

"Son of a bitch," he mutters, having given up on his shoe and smeared the blood on his uniform. "We have any water in the squad?"

"Unless you put some there, no."

"Fuck! I can't win," he stares at the red, sticky mess that have become his hands. "The trunk?"

"Extra guns, ammo, and armor. If I were you I'd run my ass to the nearest john and practically bathe in their sink."

He stares back blankly, "And you're going to, what, do this on your own? In your state?"

I ignore the 'in your state' part because I know it'll only make me angry. Instead I just motion around us, "It look like we're lacking any law enforcement here?"

He shrugs "Fine, okay," and turns around, marching down the block, muttering something about getting HIV.

I shake my head, trying not to grin, since I realize that could be a possibility. A soft, familiar voice interrupts me. I turn, meeting her face-to-face.

"Medics didn't step in the blood," she says. "Shoes don't match."

"No kidding. Wolf did. Medics hardly went passed the front door," I scoff, rolling my eyes. "I could've told them the guy was dead already."

"Sensitivity, Bosco. I don't know what we'd do without you around," she tilts her head with sarcasm and glares disapprovingly at the cigarette I hold.

"Me either," I declare. "Probably, what? Stay married, happy,—"

She bites her lip, "That's not what I meant."

I sneer, "Because there are so many other ways to mean that, right, Faith?"

She looks at me rather stunned, which I find retarded because she knows how I am and so acting surprised by my response isn't really fooling either one of us.

"Look, Bosco, give me a break, I'm _trying_...to be civil."

I laugh dryly and scan the scene unfolding in front of me on the street: the bright, flashing lights – the ones I see so much it's hard not to even when I close my eyes – and the flurry of uniforms rushing to contain the area with neon tape, while I stand here inhaling smoke. I'll feel bad later, for what I tell her, because she seems genuine and looks tired, but right now I'm just angry – so frustrated with circumstance – that I don't really care.

So I take one last drag, toss the cigarette down and smother it with my shoe. "Well," I say, my voice ridden with contempt. "Try harder."

**

* * *

**

_**Six years, ~5 months earlier**_

_**June 13, 2005:**_

"_So how long have you been here? At the 7-9?" _

_My new partner looks up, eyes wide, from his plate of grease-laden fries. It's as if he figured that because I haven't said anything all shift, I must not be capable of actually speaking. But he's twenty-five. What was I expecting?_

_His hesitation isn't normal, and it irritates me. My own French fries are wallowing in their own pool of oil and I compare it to my grief and pain: stagnant and unhealthy. _

"_It's really not a difficult question…Ryan," I almost sneer, squinting at his nameplate. My right eye instantly blurs and I stop trying to focus._

_He shrugs, "It's just that you haven't said anything to me since 3:00 today."_

_I stare, "The hell's your point?"_

_He motions to his watch, "It's 9:34. We've literally rode our first shift almost completely in silence."_

_Silently, I do feel bad. He seems like a good kid, and an even better cop. He's not exactly a rookie, and that's not why I've been giving him the silent treatment. It's just my internal hell that's made it damned near impossible to even interact with people I don't know. And the fact that my first day in Bedstuy I was presented with a "new partner", as if he were some kind of trophy, just left me wanting to vomit._

"_I'm sure I've said something to you today."_

"_Yeah," he nods, remembering, and I notice a sarcastic, almost wise glint in his eye. "You did. That domestic earlier? You told me to the 'stay the hell out of the way, kid'._

_And you called me a 'jagoff'. Do you remember what for? Because, see, I forgot…Boscorelli."_

_He bites a mutant fry with pleased finality and grins, as though he's beaten me at my own game. But if only it was a game. _

"_Look, Ryan," I scour my insides for any remaining decency that hasn't already been dissolved or calcified by an inherent, excessive loathing for a certain Captain Miller, thirteen years on the job, and my recent nicotine addiction. "I've been a jerk, I know. It's not about you…"_

"_You don't have to like me," he replies. "It's fine, really. My FTO didn't. He was so glad to hear you were coming on so he didn't have to 'deal with me anymore'."_

"_Four years on the force, why were you still with your TO?" I inquire, actually curious so that I forget my own anger momentarily._

_He shrugs, "We just sort of stayed partners after probation. The 7-9 wasn't really a big choice for transfers. No one wanted to come here, they just sent in rookies. So it was rookies with rookies. Out in the field I mean, at least I didn't have myself backing me up four months out of the academy, you know? When all hell breaks loose and bullets fly, you don't want someone who knows jack shit as much as you backing you up. That's why the 7-9 has so many God damned 10-13's. It's really not the worst place in the city, it's just the fucking blind leading the blind. Guess what I'm trying to say is, if you got to say with your TO you were considered lucky. But I'd be lying if I said I liked riding shotgun listening to his holier-than-though I-was-on-the-streets-when-you-were-nothing-but-a-dirty-thought-in-your-parent's head speeches." He shakes his head, "Fuck that," he finishes._

_I nod. "I guess I know what you mean. I didn't really want to come here either. Reassignment..."_

"_Yeah, after the 5-5…"_

_I snap my head up sharply and he seems to apologize silently, so I dismiss the sensitive topic._

"_So, your TO," I change the subject. "Why didn't he like you?"_

"_He had a stick up his ass?" He scoffs. "No, I don't really know. Same reason you don't, I guess. No reason."_

_We both nearly laugh, "I don't not like you, Ryan," I shake my head. "I mean, I don't even know you. Not yet, anyway. But I have a lot of demons in here." I pat my chest and look at him genuinely until he nods._

"_I get it," he says softy. "You know, I know why."_

"_You do?"_

_  
"Sure. 7-9 is like…well, people talk. You get a story goin' and you'll feel like you're in fucking high school again. But it's not my business, so…" he trails off._

_I swallow a huge gulp of soda, imagining how much I wish it were alcohol instead. The hell does he know already, anyway? _

"_More Coke?" I glance up abruptly at a small, delicate hand that has boldly stolen my mostly-empty, partially-melted glass of soda. _

"_Sure," I shrug. The girl is young and she smiles sweetly and turns to leave. "It's diet, though," I call, my tone slightly less friendly than I intended. _

"_Amber," Ryan says suddenly._

"_What?" I ask, turning my attention back to him. _

"_Her name's Amber."_

"_So?"_

"_You could be a little nicer, that's all."_

"_When she comes over here, I'll tell her she's fucking hot, is that nice enough for you?"_

_Ryan just grins, "Whatever. But you should know she is sixteen."_

"_And you've known her how long?"_

"_I've been coming here four years, since I started. Besides, why bother with the Diet? Clearly the tobacco and the alcohol are enough to self-destruct. Look like you could use the 100 calories, anyway."_

"_You a fucking shrink?" I ask. _

_He throws his hands up in defense, "Sorry," he mumbles. And I wonder if it's really that obvious. I mean, even to someone I've known just over six hours._

_It's Bosco," I correct, annoyed. I look past him toward Amber, then past her out into the darkness of Bedford-Stuyvesant. "Nobody calls me Boscorelli."_

"_Fine," he acquiesces. "And it's Wolf. No one calls me Ryan."_

_He blinks his black eyes and I realize why. "Fine," I mimic astutely. "Wolf."_

_We eat in silence for several more minutes, only the disgusting sound of our chewing and swallowing is audible. Finally, I speak up. I don't know why. It's definitely not out of politeness or any shit like that. Curiosity maybe._

"_Where are you from, Wolf?"_

"_What do you mean?" he asks between ungodly gulps of his drink. _

"_Well you're not from the city, I can tell that by your fucking voice."_

"_I don't have an accent," he declares, his tone almost defensive.. _

"_I know. You don't sound like a New Yorker either. You sound…plain."_

_The thump of a glass on the table temporarily distracts me from getting an answer. _

"_Thanks…" I murmur, looking up only slightly. I guess I'm sort of embarrassed about my recent insolence. Amber surprises me by smiling and nodding genuinely. _

"_Sure," she says, then turns to Wolf. "Where you been?"_

"_Mandatory 46, 'till I got my new partner here."_

_The girl nods, naivety in her eyes, but at the same, wisdom._

"_I hope he's not an asshole like Vandt was."_

_Wolf shrugs and looks at me with raised eyebrows.. "I guess we'll find out."_

"_Vandt?" I ask, as Amber spins around to leave. Our radios crackle._

"_My T.O.," Wolf answers. I nod because it all makes sense, but I haven't been paying complete attention. These days my mind is often half-somewhere else._

"_Be careful, right," Amber calls, as Wolf places wrinkled dollars into her hand and we sprint past her, leaving our food to cool and drinks to melt._

"_Sure thing, sweetheart," Wolf responds. He then tells her he'll be back to take her home after eleven._

_She rolls her eyes a little, "If I was going to get raped and murdered on my way home it probably would've happened already."_

_Wolf mutters our location into the radio and then looks up. "You're probably right." _

_Amber just smiles and waves us out._

"_The hell are her parents?" I ask, once we get into the car. I turn the ignition and don't bother with my seatbelt._

"_If you figure that out, be sure to let her know." Wolf says. He puts his seatbelt on. _

_I nod and speed off. _

"_She lives with her aunt who I guess works all the time, I don't really know," he shrugs. "I try to give her a ride home when I can, but she usually ends up walking."_

_We ride in silence for several seconds before he speaks up again. _

"_South Carolina," he murmurs finally, and almost with a little regret. "Where I'm from." _

"_No kidding?" I glance to the passenger seat, because I was more expecting him to say Arizona or something, and then back to the road. _

_He shrugs, "I did almost four years at SC State in—"_

"…_Psychology?" _

"_How did you know?"_

"_Wild guess," I tell him, thinking about how he'd effortlessly sized me up in about three seconds. "How did you get from there to the NYPD?"_

"_I never finished," he continues. "It was more of my Dad's plan for me."_

"_He's a shrink?"_

_Wolf shakes his head, "Psychiatrist, actually. But he knew I could never hack it in med school so he figured that was the next best thing." He sighs, "Anyway, I dropped out six credits short of my degree. I just wasn't going to waste more time on something I didn't want to do. I wanted to be doing this, in a city." _

_I nod understandingly. "So your dad must be pissed," I add._

"_Yeah," he replies with a shaky breath. "Not exactly a headline for him though." _

_It's when I look over and just barely make out, in the semi-darkness – a chillingly familiar look in his eyes upon his recent words – that my chest tightens and I grip the steering wheel a little bit harder. I recognize the look because I've seen it in my own eyes. _

_And I realize we might have more in common than I think._

**

* * *

**

**November 15, 2011**

"I think you guys look great," Amber announces, appearing before us in a tiny, strapless red dress that lands about six hundred miles above her knees. She's slipping on towering heels and telling us she's ready when we are.

We've spent the last two hours battling with clothes and the inhumanity that makes up our tuxes, which have tried to choke us out several times until Amber figured out how to loosen the collars for us. I complained about everything being too formal, Wolf complained about not knowing anyone except Sully and Faith, and Amber called us both killjoys and said we better at least pretend to be happy for the couple about to be wed since they already have statistics against them.

"You know," Wolf starts, looking at me concerned. It's actually harder to tell when he isn't concerned these days. "If you don't want to do this, you don't really have to."

"I kind of do," I sigh. I feel guilty because I've already promised him that I'll be okay, that I won't drink to excess, or start any fights, or doing anything else to jeopardize whatever is left of my rapidly deteriorating health and sanity.

I feel guilty because I can already sense that promise will be broken.


	7. Part 7: I Tried To Kill The Pain

_  
The Right Thing _Part 7 – "I Tried To Kill the Pain"

**A/N** – Lots of flashbacks in this and the upcoming chapters. Sorry for all the jumping around in this one, though. I've been trying to fill in some blanks. Hopefully I've dated them all well enough to avoid too much confusion! Also, some parts of this and future chapters were already written…had some timeline problems which I clear up soon. And finally, sorry for the delay in updates. I've been too lazy to upload chapters lately. Shameful.  
**Summary **– Bosco starts realizing how bad things actually are. So does Wolf.  
**Disclaimer** – I own nothing. If I did I wouldn't be a poor college student!

**

* * *

**

**August 19, 2005:**

_"This might actually work!" Wolf sounds elated, sitting at the wheel, staring at his hands as if he's just discovered a cure for cancer._

_I'm in the passenger seat, face pressed numbly against the glass. "I can't believe we have to babysit a raid three blocks away. They'll never radio. Never. You know why? Because raids don't need uniforms. Raids need ESU. I should've been ESU. Fuck."_

_"You and me, we might actually work!"_

_"Are we dating?"_

_Wolf doesn't get the joke. "I'm saying, we've been partners for three months! We've had drinks, we watched Monday Night Football, we almost got shot, we do paperwork, we alternate drivers. It's crazy. I can't believe you haven't dumped me! I can't believe I don't have to go back to Vandt!"_

_I am less impressed."I can't believe you're keeping track," I say glumly. I fumble around for a cigarette. I think about how he has no idea that when he did ask if I wanted to go get a drink the first time, he inadvertently opened Pandora's Box. _

_"That, that is a terrible habit!" he observes, bouncing around. "Bad. Bad. Really bad."_

_"You told me that already," I remind him. He looks ready for Armageddon. "You don't have to be so prepared, you know. Relax."_

_"What?"_

_I pat my radio, "They're not gonna call."_

_"But they might. They might--"_

_"Wolf, they're not gonna need us. We're gonna sit here for," I look at my watch. "Two more hours, and they're not gonna call, except maybe to transport their collateral damage to booking, then we're gonna call it a night, and tomorrow, we're gonna never, ever, ever do this again."_

_He sighs and leans back, defeated. "Killjoy."_

_"See, this is why I keep you. You learn fast. How old are you again?"_

_"Twenty-five."_

_I resume my position against the cracked window, "Yeah. I should _definitely _be ESU."_

* * *

**Present Day — December 9, 2011:**

It's been nearly a month since the wedding, and a lot has happened. Wolf has been doing all he can to keep me from confronting Faith about the situation regarding the Donald Mann revelations, warning me that the truth might be worse than just staying in the dark, and it might have worked, except today I cave; today I'm heading to her office to plead for answers. I'd have done it sooner if it weren't for Wolf's get-in-your-head-Psychology-major persuasiveness, and oh, the fact that Miller seems to have become her second skin these days. I've also wound up in St. Mary's ER again. Wolf said it was about fifteenth time since we met, but I'm not really sure he's actually been keeping track. Amber turned twenty-two last week, and finally broke off her engagement. It ended loudly and violently as any good realist (me) could have predicted; a long and bloody story for another day. I've been staying with him too, since I last tried to kill myself. It's kind of a pattern: we both stay with Wolf in the aftermath of our respective personal crises until we're able to convince him it won't happen again. But for right now, apparently neither Amber or me can stay away from what's bad for us (toxic relationships and alcohol, respectively) or hell, even fend for ourselves, so Wolf is self-appointed our surrogate until we can. It's all very ironic, actually. The three of us are like a walking cliché for domestic abuse: we all want to help each other, but none of us wants to help ourselves.

There's really nothing that significant, or unique, about my last visit to the hospital. I lapsed in and out of consciousness; they shoved tubes down my throat, and later on, Canyon — one of the doctors whose become fairly familiar with me and my bi-monthly gastric lavages over the years — informed of me the ominous condition of my liver and explained that if there was a next time, I wouldn't wake up to hear about it. At first I figured he didn't realize that was kind of the whole point. Then they shipped me up to psych. That's happened before too, so none of this was particularly groundbreaking. Yet, for some reason, I can't shake any of it this time. Granted, shaking it off has never been easy, considering I've been consumed with it all for years. But on other occasions, I usually managed to use plausible sanity to convince my way out of triage bays at four in the morning and off of psych holds, and to somehow get Wolf believing there might still be hope for me.

"I'm totally fine," I, for example, told him one day in February, when everything had been dark for weeks and weeks and I felt like I was being smothered alive by the city. I felt it strongly enough to drink until I blacked out (again). But I blacked out longer than usual, and ended up admitted, where they induced vomiting and loudly relayed to one another that the cop in curtain area two was in for intentional alcohol poisoning. That was the first of many times I'd have to use this sane act to ward off the mental squad, otherwise known as Psych.

"Seriously," I was very convincing. Even the nurse seemed impressed by my ability to appear perfectly normal. Wolf on the other hand did not look swayed. He was afraid though. Afraid of doing something that might, somehow, just potentially, maybe just even a little bit, screw me up even more. Some would argue whether that was or is even possible. Wolf has never been a risk-taker.

I laughed, "If I really wanted to be dead, I would be dead. I would've just eaten my gun." Wolf winced like he often did when I said things like that.

"Maybe you didn't want to be dead," the nurse suggested. "But maybe you wanted help."

"Maybe you could get me the damn forms so I can sign myself out this pit."

Wolf looked troubled. What should've he have done? Committed me again? Probably. But I made sure this didn't happen. Besides, if I'd covered up any more hospital stays with "the flu", the department just might have started getting suspicious.

"Look, I just drank too much! No big deal, I'll be fine, I won't do it again, let's go, come on." I wrestled the IV out of my hand.

"Fine."

Wolf was very staid when we walked out through the automatic doors; an increasingly familiar route. "You drink too much a lot," he said.

I have to shake away my thoughts in order to get to the top of the stairs and try to find the courage to knock on her door, but again, the thoughts don't back down easily anymore. I stand and negotiate for awhile. The place is pretty quiet this time of day, mid-shift. All the uniforms are out on the streets, so there's only a low buzz of activity around me. I'd be out on the streets too, if Wolf hadn't demanded I take a few more days off. Another time I would have ignored him, gotten up and come to work anyway, but, like other things lately, this sounded somewhat different. Almost like a silent ultimatum. In the end, I decided not to fight him, so I stayed home and he went and got partnered up with Royal. Royal's a good cop, my age, give or take a few years, and I'm relieved Wolf's with him instead of a rookie. I believe that every time Wolf has insisted I don't return to work so soon after a traumatic weekend of quite literally drinking myself half to death, I complain that he's better off with me than risking being stuck with some rookie for the shift, to which he always replies is better than being stuck with someone who is suicidal for the shift. I never have anything to say after that, so he usually wins.

The door in front of me swings open before I can even raise my fist to it, which alarms me, but saves me from actually having to act. Maybe a few years ago I wouldn't even have thought to stop and knock. I can't be sure.

"Hey," I say quietly. She looks a little confused by presence. Instead of demanding entrance, I just wait for an invitation.

"Come in," she says, on cue. "I'm just waiting for a call from the M.E. on our John Doe."

"How's that going anyway?" I make my way around her desk to Miller's and take a seat in the empty chair. Every time I see it, I wonder why the department doesn't have a policy about spouses working together. And every time I wonder that, I remember that if the 7-9 actually had any policies, I probably would've been out the door a long time ago.

"It's going," she says, tossing her hair and sitting down across from me. "Are you taking your meds?"

"Well, Wolf practically shoves them down my throat every twelve hours, if that counts."

She nods, satisfied. This is the kind of small talk we've been reduced to over the last half-a-decade. But a few seconds later, the real reason for my visit is evident.

"This about Mann?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Surprised it took you so long."

"Ryan's pretty convincing."

"You didn't used to listen to him."

"Of course I did," I smile cautiously. "I just never _admitted_ it." I focus my emphasis on the 'admitted' part. She looks up and sighs.

"Do you want the long version or the short one?"

I shake my head, "I don't know. I don't care. You know, I thought about rushing in here every time I had the slightest feeling that everything I knew about that day at Mercy didn't add up. But then some time would go by, and then some more time, and a few years, and a few more years and then, well, then I just didn't care as much. I think, maybe, part of me didn't want to know. And now, now I'm not sure. I mean, I have enough pieces of the puzzle. I don't need to know why or how or where or when. I just needed to know what, and now I do."

She seems a little surprised by my sudden declaration, looking at me as she absorbs it all, biting her bottom lip and I wonder if, or maybe hope, that it's partly from guilt.

"Bosco, I am so sorry," she says finally.

I scoff and smile, "Don't be. I thought it was gonna be something…something else, I don't know. Something that I would understand why everyone hid from me, but, it isn't. I thought it was something so horrible that you all just had to keep it quiet, that you had some sort of justification for it. I guess the only thing I can't get over is why you thought you couldn't tell me _this_."

I wait to see if she has anything else to add, but instead she just keeps quiet, her eyes averted.

"Well," I continue, getting to my feet. "It doesn't change anything, anyway. Maybe six-and-a-half years ago it would've, but we'll never know. Anyway, I'll see ya."

"Are you going to be okay?" she stops me suddenly just as I reach the door. And then, when I assume she realizes it's a ridiculous question, given my track record isn't exactly filed under 'sanity', she adds, "Tonight?"

"Don't worry," I tell her, winking. "Amber's babysitting me until Wolf gets off. They flipped a coin. He gets the night watch."

She smiles very faintly at my attempt at a joke, "Bosco," she starts. I look back.

"We can talk more…whenever," she hesitates a little.

"About this?" I ask.

She shrugs and smiles faintly, "About whatever."

I nod, and then she waves me off cautiously, as she's done for so long now – I guess because she realizes that every time she says goodbye, it might be for good.

* * *

**November 15, 2011:**

_The wedding's really not supposed to be ending like this, with me almost completely sober again, every crap detail of my life just as lucid as before I got here. I'm supposed to be drunk as hell, not even conscious of Wolf as he drags me away from all of these people, or of Amber as she follows, likely wondering what hospital I'll end up in tonight, how much activated charcoal I'll have to swallow this time while she looks on in horror. Technically, I'm supposed to be so piss drunk that I've drowned or numbed most of my problems to the point where I don't particularly care about anyone else's. And emotionally, I've always been in so much pain that I couldn't see that _**not **_being that way was a good thing. Tonight I feel less like that, and more like I might survive without being entirely intoxicated, if only because this trip down memory lane is coming to a close and I'll never, ever have to see some of these people again, except maybe until one of them decides to get married or kill each other._

"_This wasn't too bad, right?" Wolf asks, striding up to me, Amber close behind. He seems like he's sobered up too, although he's always held his liquor well, for the most part. Amber on the other hand is reaching for his shoulder and seems to have unexpectedly forgotten how to walk in her heels. She laughs loudly as if nearly falling on her face is the most hilarious thing in the world._

"_No," I concede. "It wasn't that bad." Honestly, it's been fairly uneventful. I've been low-key most of the night, keeping myself off the radar except for people like Sully and Davis. _

_I shift my eyes toward Amber, who's still using Wolf's shoulder for support. "Did the Prescott kid spike her drink?" I ask dryly. Wolf just shrugs and grins, leaping to catch her as she stumbles again. _

"_Jesus," he mutters._

_******************* **5 hours earlier:**_

_There are tables galore crowded together in a messy line toward one end, a cleared area for dancing, and on the other end speakers, food, and every alcoholic beverage known to man – or at least to New York. I stare at it thirstily from where I sit, my back facing whatever live band Davis and Monroe have arranged - that is singing something about city lights and love - and I think how that alcohol is looking better and better with every passing second and lyric._

_I can't be blamed for any of this, regardless of whatever promise I made to Wolf earlier in the evening. I can tell he's only a few minutes away from caving too. Our round table, where up until about five minutes ago, we'd both been sitting alone together – quietly talking and simultaneously surveilling Amber as she flirted several yards away with some guy we recognize as a recent transfer from the department, Prescott Something-Or-Other, and trying to decide how far we're going to let it go before we intervene – has suddenly been claimed by five guests: Miller, Faith, the bride and groom, and someone who looks a little younger than Wolf, who I probably would never have remembered had Davis not addressed him as 'Brendan' a few times to inadvertently jog my memory._

_The awkwardness is epic; thicker even than the multi-level cake that was recently cut, to much applause and congratulations. I groan silently, wondering if there is any remote possibility of escaping this situation tactfully. Wolf seems to sense my whole flight-or-fight deal going on and so he gives me one of those looks that says __Be normal__. _

_I clear my throat, "How's anti-crime?" I look at Davis for an answer. _

_He shrugs and nods, "Not bad, not bad," he says, and Finney chimes in with some story about them and Vice that I tune out because once again I'm too busy staring at the refreshments, so far out of reach, or at Amber and her new acquaintance and convincing myself of the man's mal-intent (what kind of name is Prescott for a cop anyway?). It's better than exchanging glances with Miller as he spins his wine glass around and slips his arm tighter around Faith's side as if he thinks if she gets any closer they might somehow just become one person altogether and then maybe I won't pose any threat to their marriage, assuming I do now._

_I writhe in my seat at the display, wrenching my neck to give Wolf a discreet look that says I don't know how much more of this I can take, and he looks back piteously as if to say he's sorry, even though it's me who has dragged us – head-on and unarmed – into this unfortunate reunion._

_******************_

_The alcohol has finally done its job. Not anything like I crave, because I'm nowhere near being so wasted that I don't remember the pain or even my name, but it has started to touch me, meaning now I have the courage to stand up and approach her. I nod to some passing guests that I don't recognize from the 5-5. I've come to realize in the past two hours that I don't actually recognize very many people. I'm at peace with this because it means there's fewer people I have to deal with. Fewer people who will greet me out of obligatory politeness and say 'Hey, how have you been? it's been forever, did you get a promotion? get married?', and fewer people I'll have to face, biting my tongue and restraining the urge to violently lash out as they drill fire obnoxious questions that I'm pretty sure they already know the pathetic answers to._

_I take a deep breath, the neutral air fills my lungs and is almost a welcome respite from the typical smoke I'd be inhaling if Monroe hadn't plastered every wall, post, and table with massive "NO SMOKING" signs. Wolf had to remind me earlier that she hadn't done it to piss me off specifically, although I'm still not entirely convinced. I notice Wolf himself lingering several yards away, sweet-talking some brunette who doesn't look quite old enough to be out of high school. I shrug, take a final gulp from my bottle and toss it into a nearby trashcan. He'd kill me if he knew I was drinking; especially if he knew I was drinking this much in the first couple hours, so I revel in the fact that's he's being a crappy chaperone, and when the girl says something to make him laugh, he doesn't exactly look completely sober either. I feel somewhat justified, so I head in Faith's direction. _

_She's standing in the same spot she's been in for most of the time since our table split up, which is about the time I started downing drinks in fear they all might return. It wasn't that I was intentionally avoiding all of them. In fact, me and Davis had a perfectly fine conversation about everything except his new wife. I introduced him to Wolf, who up until now he'd only heard of, and he told me all about anti-crime and how Finney was hoping to get back on the same watch when his kid Slade got a little older. He didn't say anything specifically, but it sounded like him and that paramedic aren't working out. I don't remember her name, I just remember she helped save my mother. Anyway, Sully was probably the only other person I'd been genuinely happy to see this evening. Even Wolf seemed thankful when he joined us all at that cursed table to deflect Monroe's attempts at verbal vengeance for a shooting that IAB had cleared in record time. It's not that I don't feel bad for what happened, even after almost seven years now, but even Davis seems to have let it go. _

"_Hi," Faith says softly, catching me off guard and luring me from my thoughts. I sort of figured I'd probably have to initiate any conversation if there was to be one. She doesn't, however, look up from her fixated gaze on the stacked glasses, coolers, and disrupted collection of bottles of wine. _

"_You're just staring, not drinking," I observe. It sounds lame, but I have to say something to break the ice._

"_I don't have to," she says, looking up finally with an indifferent glint in her eyes. "You drink enough for both of us."_

"_Okay," I scoff. "That's getting pretty fucking old."_

_She just shrugs. I'm so angry. Isn't it at least partially her fault that I have to drink these days just to talk to her? Or maybe me having tried to kill myself made the six-year-buildup of awkwardness even greater. I don't really know anymore._

"_I don't want to fight," she mumbles suddenly. "Sorry."_

_I just nod. I should be a little surprised she apologized so fast, considering the last time we spoke was when I snapped at her at the robbery shooting. At the same time, this is pretty much the way we communicate lately. I say hi, she comments on my wellbeing or lackthereof, I say something sarcastic, she says something sarcastic, and we either stalk off in separate directions or one of us finally decides to be remotely civil. Tonight seems to be her turn for the latter._

"_Shouldn't you be, like, introducing Ryan to these people or something?"_

"_I would," I tell her, "But I don't even really know half these people. And the ones I did know? Hell if I do now."_

"_Yeah, me either," she glances down at the cobblestone, looking forlorn – beautiful, but forlorn. "Where is he anyway?"_

"_Wolf?" I glance in the direction I saw him last, but he's gone. "I don't know. Think he found himself a hot minor."_

_When she lets out a small laugh I realize it's the probably only the third time I've really seen her really smile the whole night. The first was when Emily and Charlie came rushing in late, all dressed up for the event, looking as grown up as ever, apologizing profusely for the traffic on the FDR as if they had any control over it anyway. The second was when she'd congratulated Davis after the vows were done being said, and even then there was a tinge of hostility in her words as Monroe lingered closely, clutching his arm and casting less-than-friendly glances our way. It was funny, really, to think we had all been partners at one point or another. We had all ridden together, responded to calls together, had each other's back – and not always just out of obligation. We were friends once upon a time - once upon a time before IAB unveiled their latest plant; before the bank shooting and the pregnancy and Donald Mann and Mikey and the coma and a million other things of high crap-factors._

_I couldn't help but exchange commiserative looks with Faith during the long-ass ceremony, because I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Sully, though wise enough to know this marriage was already doomed, could only sit, unwilling to judge, as he and Maggie stared on and swelled with pride. _

"_Actually," I announce, with an accomplished sigh. "I did introduce him to Davis earlier."_

"_Wow," she nods. "Progress."_

_I shrug and smile, and then realize that hers has faded. She's back to looking as demure as she has most of the evening, which suddenly strikes me as strange. It's not the most comfortable occasion given all the skeletons in closet, but she knows more people here than I do, and she has Miller – whatever prize she's deemed him to be – and she seems happy for Davis, and there's alcohol everywhere and in mass quantities. But she's not talking to anyone, Miller's nowhere in sight; she isn't drinking, and every so often glances sadly at her watch. This confuses me and I'm not quite sure what else to say, so eventually we fall into the same discomfited silence that seems to define whatever pieces are left of our ravaged friendship._

_*************_

_I turn to survey the people who are still lingering. Some people have already left; most are giving their final congrats to the couple before going on their way. That's mostly what me and Wolf have been waiting around for – for the crowd to die down so I can talk to Davis again and then get Amber home before she throws up or passes out; both possibilities are looking more and more imminent. _

"_I thought you were watching her," I stare accusingly at Wolf, even though I know neither one of us is really to blame. Although, I decide, I haven't exactly been the best role model over the years._

"_Me? I thought you were."_

"_I was busy making sure that guy didn't—…" So, I really wasn't judging Prescott solely on his name. The guy has a history of marching into the locker room (late) and announcing how many virgins he lured into bed over the weekend. I complained about him to Faith once, but she just seemed to think it was funny that I didn't recognize the irony of the situation._

"_He has a name!" Amber interrupts, and then recoils in laughter._

"_Whatever," I mumble, dismissing the topic as I spot Davis nearby, free from the mobs, and motion for Wolf to follow me over. Monroe is standing beside him, waving off a few guests, and they both turn to us as we walk over. Sully, Faith, and Miller seem to find us all at the same time. _

_The night seems to be ending just the way it started: Me and Wolf and Miller all shake Davis' hand astutely, muttering things about how great the ceremony was and that we'll have to catch up again soon. Everyone seems to ignore Monroe almost exclusively, except for Sully, who hugs her and then starts laughing with Davis about something. Faith just stands patiently._

_What happens next isn't a blur. In fact, it's vivid. It's vivid and slow moving. A man appears and embraces Monroe. He looks familiar. Maybe I saw him during the ceremony. Or the reception. He looks suspiciously like law enforcement. Not surprisingly, considering she was cop, Davis __is __a cop, and just about everyone here is a cop or some sort of political affiliate. Internal Affairs, however, doesn't cross my mind until..._

_"DEAD MAN WALKING!" The Man roars in my face. I don't process his words. I'm too busy noticing that he smells like a distillery. I back up. _

_"We used to call you Final Destination!" he continues, loud and unsolicited. I wonder who '__we' __is. "No one really figured you could take an assault rifle to the carotid and get back on the force." _

_Wolf looks confused. He's still holding Amber upright. No one else has any answers for me; everyone seems to be exchanging _Oh shit_ faces. Faith tries to interrupt (I can't imagine what she has to say to someone who I don't know but who seems to know everything about me) but this just directs the Man's attention to her._

_"You know, Yokas," he starts, and then stops. No one's called Faith that in six years. He tries again, "Mitchell? Miller? Anyway, Rat Squad or not, I was always on your side. I would've capped Donald Mann too, I just think it's a shame that Sergeant Cruz got all, the, credit. Don't you think?"_

_If I have any solid ground left in what remains of my alcohol-laden existence: it dissolves._

* * *

**Present Day - December 9, 2011:**

I'm thinking; sitting in Wolf's living room beside Amber, thinking. Well, I guess dwelling would be more accurate. I think about how quickly and effortlessly I could singlehandedly finish off at least a gallon of hard liquor. I think about all the ramifications and wonder why they don't even faze me; why they don't even make me stop and reconsider. I wonder why after every hospital stay and every psychiatric interrogation and every prescription and every time Wolf kneels in front of me and essentially begs me to stop, I still can't. I hate myself for all the times I can't answer him when he demands to know why he isn't enough of an incentive for me to stop; why Amber isn't enough. I'm so tightly in the grip of it all that as much as hurting them kills me, I still feel completely helpless to stop. And ironically, that just makes me want to die even more.

I think about another particularly traumatizing incident from a couple years back, though I was so fucked up that I only remember it in dizzying, abbreviated sequences. There were lights, then no lights. Lights. Darkness. Lights. Darkness. Voices. Silence. Shouting. Blackness. Faces. Nothing.

When I could see anything, it was bright, iridescent lights and unfamiliar, concerned faces hovering above me, each of them doing something different. One was shining more light into my eyes, one was stabbing my arm, and several more were holding me down. When I couldn't see, which was most of the time, I decided, all there was was blackness; emptiness. I couldn't hear anything. The people were gone. I was gone. Then it happened again. For a few split, jagged seconds, I came to. Wolf was standing off to the side, near a curtain, his eyes red, tears blazing a trail down his face. I could only read one thing on his it: grief. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, what he looked so completely devastated about. Something was obviously wrong and I wanted to know what it was.

"Don't try to talk, you're not going to be able to talk."

When I could see, I saw a man standing over me, leaning over and looking down. He put his hands around my face. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He was very familiar. I'd seen him before. I'd heard him before. Stethoscope. He was a doctor. I struggled for what seemed like forever just for the name, 'Canyon'.

Darkness. Nothing. Silence. Damnit. I was starting to figure it out.

I saw Wolf again, finally, but he had put his face in his hands and turned around. He looked unsteady on his feet. I remember thinking that someone should help him. I tried to sort out my thoughts, but my brain was foggy. I wondered if something terrible had happened to Amber or Faith or somebody we knew. It was the only reason Wolf would look so sad.

Suddenly I couldn't see, or breathe. Someone was choking me. Ruthlessly, violently choking me. Lights. I recognized the thing they were trying to shove down my throat. I'd felt it before and I didn't like it. They were going to put liquid in it and I was going to choke even more. It was a nightmare; it was deja vu. It meant I was still alive. That was exactly what I was trying to avoid.

"Stop, stop, stop. He's panicking."

Canyon was still holding my face. He was still hovering over me, still fading in and out of my vision. I was consumed with a sense of dread - gradual but sudden, overwhelming, like something had gone terribly and irreparably wrong. And maybe I could've fixed it, if I wasn't so afraid.

"Can't we sedate him?" I remember someone in scrubs, who didn't seem a day over twenty, looking like they were witnessing torture.

"No, he's too unstable. The best thing we can do for him is keep him awake." Canyon seemed hesitant to simply pin me down and choke me to death, but he motioned for them to continue. He looked back down at me and moved a little closer, his eyes tired but compassionate. "Try to relax. Breathe out your nose. I'm so sorry."

The tube was thick and rigid, like it always was. I fought the urge to gag but was unsuccessful. The charcoal hit my stomach like heavy acid. They rolled me over, black and bloody liquid pouring out of my mouth. I hear someone say _He's seizing!, _and then more darkness. Nothing. Silence. I was gone again.

"Hey. Hey? _Bosco?_"

Someone squeezes my shoulder and lures me out of vice-like grasp of my thoughts. "You okay?" they ask.

I focus my eyes -- something that got increasingly more challenging to do sometime around, oh, 2005 -- and Wolf's face comes into view, "Yeah, okay, yup," I say. Had I really not even heard him come in? I lean forward and put my face in my hands, running my fingers hard against my temples, willing my brain to just s_top _for a goddamn second. When I glance up again, Wolf is dropping his coat on the floor and then focusing his attention on Amber, who, somewhere between calculus and physics, has fallen asleep (an increasingly common phenomenon during the semester).

"Help me," he says, trying to dismantle the textbooks from her lap without actually waking her.

The two of us manage to get her out from underneath all of the papers and books and Wolf successfully carries her onto his bed; she hardly stirs. By the time he reappears and collapses next to me, with a tired post-shift sigh, I've managed to light a cigarette and convince most of the unsettling memories from my head. I'm still not exactly sure why I'm being assaulted with them all now; until tonight, I haven't thought about that specific day in…well….since it happened. So why now? Why is every blackout I've ever had, and every ominous medical test result I've ever gotten, suddenly now so readily available in my mind to torment me? Why have the past few weeks been weighted down by this persistent sensation of dread and peril?

"Remember Micah?"

Wolf catches me off-guard. I hesitate, "Sure, Stamford? The med student who knew about all the shit your dad put you through and pretended to care?"

"Yeah, Bosco, that one," he says dryly. "You're such an asshole, you know. He basically saved my life in college."

"Your dad still drove two fucking hours to S.C. State to keep you miserable," I shake my head. I've known for years now that Wolf's father visited him at the university and that the abuse continued until, well, until he moved here. "Seriously, Wolf, seriously, you had x-rays. Micah fucking stitches you up at three-in-morning in your _dorm room, _but he never_ tells_ anyone. All that evidence and he never said damn thing."

"Because I told him not to!" Wolf shouts, looking at me in slight disbelief, because we've had this conversation a few times before – at least. "So yeah, I fucking _know_ I should've done something."

"Not _you_," I say. "God damn, Ryan, you were eighteen. He was fucking twenty-four. He was almost a doctor. You always said he helped you but he didn't really, did he? He didn't help you _enough_."

I'm really not trying to make Wolf feel bad; my entire stance on the issue is that in spite of whatever hero he makes out this one Micah Stamford to be, I'm not convinced the guy ever really did all he could to get Wolf out of the situation he was in. Wolf endured it all until he was twenty-one, as far as I know. I suppose if Micah was there for the moral support like Wolf claims he was, and if he ever, ever staved any potential abuse from occurring, then for those things I'm grateful. I guess part of me just wishes I could've known him then; part of me thinks I would've done a better job of protecting him. Sometimes I think it's because of Mikey. It's sort of the way I see Wolf, except, growing up, he didn't have anyone else to help him. He never had anyone at all.

"Well, whatever," he says, waving a hand through the air, like he's dismissing our argument. "The reason I brought him up is because he's been in the City a few years now."

"You told me," I mutter, letting smoke burn in my lungs before letting it flow out of my nose and mouth.

"Okay, well, did I tell you he did a few rotations in addiction medicine? He's one of the doctors at that new place downtown."

I stop focusing so much on my cigarette and turn to look at him, "The new rehab place?"

Wolf nods slowly, cautiously. It's a sensitive topic. Afterall, it's not like he hasn't tried all the obvious things on me – AA, rehab, therapy – it's just that none of them have worked.

"It's supposed to be really good."

I hate when he talks like this, because he sounds so smart and so logical and so normal, and so, in comparison, I just feel worse. Besides, he talks with so much hope. How can you have hope in your voice all while talking to a hopeless case? He squeezes my shoulder and then walks off muttering something about where we're all supposed to sleep, now that Amber has migrated into a diagonal position across the bed and shows no signs of waking. And while I finish off a couple more cigarettes, my mind wanders ruthlessly back to random, disconcerting pieces of my past.

Wolf doesn't push the rehab subject any more tonight.

* * *

**October 11, 2007**

**__****Four years, ~2 months earlier**

_I stalk my ex-partner. I antagonize her husband. I frequently sabotage my job only to save it again by staying in fragile good graces with the lieutenant. I'm the one who sucks the life out of my partner. Anything he has left at the end of the day is usually spent trying to help save mine. I wake him up at night when everything becomes too much for me to handle alone; when all the things wrong in my life converge and I just can't deal anymore. I make him lie for me, cover for me, hell, I've even been the reason why he's cried. But, as I've discovered, no matter how deep we bury them, we all have our demons. _

_Most of the time, Wolf is nothing short of saint-like. He is always on time. He speaks evenly and controlled, all his words planned out thoroughly in advance. He's organized, self-disciplined. And people get used to him this way. But if they knew what happened him to him, when he was little, they would wonder how it's possible. They would wonder why he isn't curled up in the bottom of a bottle (like me). They would wonder how he is always so fucking composed. _

_"I SWEAR TO GOD!" _

_Kick. Slam. Punch._

_I stand a few yards away, clenching a lighter and a pack of New York Cuts and watching him diffuse some of the endless anger twenty-seven years in the making on a defenseless locker door. It's been a regular phenomenon for about two years, sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, sometimes only monthly, and sometimes on other targets, but it's always there, in some display of rage or another. _

_"Feel better?" I ask. _

_He hesitates, glances down at his trembling hands and then nods._

_"Good," I wave my cigarettes around. I know that making a big deal out of it will only make him feel worse; I deal with the situation by being flippant. "'Cause I need to smoke these like yesterday."_

_I'm sure Wolf would like it if he could plan these outbursts, and I think that he does to the best of his ability. But we're not always in an empty locker room, or his apartment, or my apartment, or somewhere otherwise less occupied. Sometimes we're on a call, or in the car, or walking around a corner, and I see that look in his eyes, and I know he's going back there, to that place, just for a minute, but that minute is going to feel like hell. And in that minute, he'll question why he's even still here. He'll wonder why his father didn't just kill him while he had the chance, he'll wonder why he didn't just kill _himself _while he had the chance._

_When me and Wolf first got partnered up, he kept his past locked up almost as well as I did mine. But even when I initially witnessed his rage, I knew immediately where it was coming from. I'd seen myself do the same thing, the same way, with the same abandoned, hate-the-whole-fucking world look in my eyes. I didn't push, though. _

_One night after shift, about nine or so months into my transfer to the 7-9, things seem exponentially worse: Wolf sits in his car, blood running down his knuckles, eyes staring straight ahead but focusing on nothing. I get in the passenger seat and sit with him until the blood dries and he finally breaks his gaze and drove home. Then he's in his kitchen, staring at the running water like it might talk to him, if he waits long enough. I take it upon myself to push his hands under it, and for a few minutes our roles are completely reversed. He disappears into his bedroom and I head into the living room, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do; trying to figure out what I would've wanted someone to do for me eight years earlier when I was still reliving the torture of my childhood. I get distracted for a second when I find Amber on the floor, surrounded by textbooks, and completely asleep. She always does this – writes and calculates until her hand goes numb and her brain can't take in any more information and her body can't handle any more sleep deprivation – so she passes out. She hardly moves when I lift her on to the couch and cover her up. I stare at her for a few seconds and finally decide that I just answered my own question: I go off to find Wolf, in all of his contagious despair. _

_"I hate to talk about it," I talk to his back because he's facing the wall; silent and faking stoic. I continue anyway. "I always hate whenever someone wants me to talk about it because all I ever wanted to do was fucking forget it ever fucking happened. ...But I did want someone to ask. Even if I didn't want to talk about it, I wanted the opportunity. I wanted someone to fucking _care enough_ to_ ask_. So I'm asking. Ryan, I'm asking."_

_I'm not sure if I'm prepared for what Wolf tells me, or what I'm supposed to do when he cries, but I listen anyway. I've heard most of it before, but not everything; not all of the incomprehensible details. I don't know - maybe it has something to do with it being _him_. Maybe if it was someone else I wouldn't care so much. _

_"Jesus," I mutter, when he pauses to claw tears off his face and sigh. "Didn't you have anyone who..."_

_"Gave a damn about me?" he intercedes. _

_I shrug. _

"_Not really," he says softly, shaking his head, his face defeated. "Not until now."_


	8. Part 8: Love Is Not Enough

The Right Thing, Part 8 – _Love Is Not Enough_

**Notes:** There's still some jumping around with segments from the past, but overall, I hope to have established a realistic sense of what Bosco is going through, and how it affects everyone around him. I'm halfway through 9, so that's not far off. Thanks everyone for the kind comments here and over on LJ! :) Lyrics from "Today" by Gary Allan.**  
Warnings:** Language, character violence, talk of suicide. It's really pretty tame, considering.  
**Disclaimer:** I still don't own anything; I still basically live off Ramen, for the record. -_-

* * *

_// Today, he told her that he loved her, put a ring around her finger  
And it hurts to say this out loud; looks like she's really gone now  
I know I should be happy for her, but I've lost everything I've ever wanted  
Today //  
_

**January 19, 2006:  
**

I hate churches today. Never really had anything against 'em before, never went, but didn't hate them. But today, today this place is like someone designed a building specifically for the purpose of pissing me off.

I drag my cigarette across the side of the wall, watching it burn out. It's probably a sin, but, no one's around to see it. Some would argue God is, and I might believe it, if I didn't have a dead brother, and if Faith isn't about to marry the biggest prick I've ever met in law enforcement (okay, so I don't know him, but I don't like him either), and if I don't ride around all shift with a twenty-five year old who sleeps less than three hours a night and bloodies his knuckles on random things at random intervals because he just can't get the face of his father or the feeling of spiral arm fractures out of his head long enough to relax, or if we didn't know a sixteen-year-old latchkey kid who spends seven hours a day in high school, eight hours at work, and then navigates the New York City streets alone on her way home at a quarter to midnight. If not for all of _that_,_ then_ I might believe there's a God that gives damn whether or not I deface a fucking place of worship.

Ma finds me in the same spot a few minutes later, about a half hour into the service, and convinces me to go inside again. I decide the disaster is going to happen with or without me; I may as well witness the one good thing I have left promise forever to someone else. Otherwise, I don't know if it will ever really, actually sink in.

~*~

There's a gap between the ceremony and reception, and in it I manage to find Sully. He just looks at me pathetically and quickly switches topics. "How are you liking BedStuy?" he asks. Granted, we are actually _in_ BedStuy, the neighborhood, but he's obviously referring to the 7-9 in general.

"It's not bad," I tell him honestly. "Good people, I guess. Busy."

"Good, good," he nods. "And Ryan's good?"

"Wolf is okay," I say. Wolf met Sully briefly a few months back when Sully met us at Amber's diner during our 10-63. I guess it's a little – okay, a lot – unlikely, that me and Sully would ever communicate again once the 5-5 was torched and just about everyone we knew was sent in separate directions – either to new precincts, or new details, or, in Sully's case, retirement. It just sort of happened this way.

"Seemed good," he adds. "A lot like you back when."

"Me?"

Sul shrugs, "Sure."

I disagree sharply by shaking my head, "Not really," I say. Aside from that fact that Sul knows nothing of Wolf's tragic past, which is about the only thing we have in common, there's really nothing else obvious to make it seem like we're anything short of polar opposites. Wolf is negligibly taller, his hair and eyes significantly darker, his voice slightly more southern, and while I don't yet look my age (I'm figuring it'll take a few more convenience stores worth of six-packs and cigarettes, and a few more months to dwell on this marriage), I'm a good eight years older than Wolf – I figure he must look at least a little younger.

"You don't think so?" Sully wonders aloud as we head into the reception area. He isn't stupid; he knows this whole ridiculous conversation only ever began to distract me from my surroundings and, speaking of which, I intend to get the hell out of dodge as soon as I can find a fucking exit.

"No, Wolf is…he's…" I hesitate and think of him. He's everything I wasn't when I was twenty-five: he's far more tolerant, patient, quiet and law-abiding. I spot two double doors near a back wall, and before making my escape I tell Sully the first thing that comes to mind, "He's a better person than me."

_// Today, she's found a new beginning and I'm wishing  
I had one more chance; God knows it's too late for that  
I know I should be happy for her, but I've lost everything  
I've lost everything I ever wanted  
Today //_

_

* * *

  
_

**Present Day – December 17, 2011  
**

I wake up in Wolf's bed at an ungodly and slightly unsettling time – 9:11am. It's unsettling for obvious reasons. It's ungodly because we work the third shift, and lately, we've been pulling doubles just to cover for other people. If we actually make it home before 2:30 or 3am, it's a good day (night), therefore, it's not uncommon for me to sleep well past ten-thirty or eleven. I'm not exactly sure how I've ended up where I am, but my throat burns a little, my head hurts even more, and when I drag myself out into the living room, a few empty bottles of Jameson and a full ashtray that litter the table where I_ think_ I was sitting the night before, offer some insight into why I feel how I feel.

"Hey," Wolf says. He's at the table and he doesn't look up from the laptop open in front of him. I mumble something incoherent in reply and wander to his fridge for a bottle of water. I open it and note that it seems to be missing something important. _Oh yeah, alcohol._

"Where's Amber?" I ask, suddenly confused. I don't remember the night before, but that's hardly unusual.

"Library," he replies, still focused on the computer screen.

"Spends a lot of time there, don't you think?"

Wolf shrugs, his voice lazy, "Wants to graduate in the spring."

"I guess," I lean over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for a bigger place to live."

"Seriously?" I ask.

"Seriously," he confirms. "Amber is always falling asleep on the floor, and I'm not making her go back to her aunt, who we don't even know is around anymore or where she's been disappearing to off and on for the past six years. And I can't just send _you_ home and hope you somehow fend for yourself," he turns and points to the drained bottles. Maybe I should be offended, but I'm not. I'm all for not paying the rent on a place that's mostly uninhabited, and I'm glad the only thing I seem to be able to do when I'm wasted is find a place to sleep, while my dad always managed to find less humane things to do after a few drinks. I won't deny that sometimes – okay, most of the time – I still worry that maybe it's not too late for me to suddenly start continuing the family tradition of violence. If I did, I'm not sure I'd even remember any of it.

"Anything?"

Wolf shakes his head, "Nothing we can afford."

"Amber could go stay in a dorm," I suggest. "She only has a semester left."

"I don't want to put her in a dorm," Wolf announces, swiveling around slightly in the chair. "Besides, do you know how much a dorm costs at NYU for 'one semester'? Do _you_ want to put her in a dorm? I'll tell her when she gets home, 'Sorry Amber, we kind of don't have room for you anymore, so we're kicking you out.' How many times does she have to get abandoned by someone before she goes off and says 'I do' to another wife beater or just goes to a halfway house for perpetual orphans and slits her wrists? How many times, Bosco?"

I pause at his breathless tirade and then slowly put my hands up in surrender, or, maybe, in defense, "Sorry. Jesus, Ryan. …Fuck."

He closes the computer and sighs apologetically. I collapse onto the couch, letting the bottles in front of me blur as I give up focusing my sight for now. I try, sometimes, to reserve that sort of energy for when I really need it – like when I have to drive or draw my gun.

"I don't know," Wolf sighs again, standing up.

"You don't know what?" I ask. "How not to be a fucking jerk?"

He wipes his hand over his mouth, reminding me again that my throat burns, and not only my throat, but my chest. Normally I'd just chalk it up to the fact that I had whiskey and nicotine for dinner again, but for some reason, right now, it seems worse than that.

"I don't know what to do anymore. With you. For you."

I scoff but avoid his eyes. It's my way of downplaying the situation without actually facing him, because then I'd have to admit that there really is no way in the world _to _downplay it. It is what it is. It is what it's been for years. It's fucked up. Beyond repair.

"What do you want me to do, Ryan?"

He makes frustrated fists, "The same thing I've wanted you to do for _six years_! Fucking _stop_ drinking! Just _stop_."

This conversation would be more groundbreaking if we haven't had it every month for those past six years he mentioned, but we have, and it's no revelation, and it never works. So I look at him like I do every time he yells at me, to tell him expressively that I _can't_, despite how much I may have wanted to in the past, or that at this point, I don't care enough to try anymore. If the bottles in front of me had anything left in them, which they don't and wouldn't, of course, but if they did, I'd finish them off right now, right here, in the middle of this semi-screaming match, even as I clutch my throat as it continues to burn even more ruthlessly – because _that's_ how bad it is now. _That's_ how low I've sunk. _That's_ how addicted I am.

Wolf pushes those bottles out of the way and sits on the coffee table directly in front of me; it creaks under his weight but holds fast. "I know you can't just stop by yourself, that's not what I'm saying, Bosco. I'm saying, you need help to stop, so—…"

"…So you want to send me to rehab again!"

"Yes, that's _exactly_ what I want to do!"

I leap up off of the couch to escape the zone of guilt he's cornered me into. "It's not going to _fucking work_, Wolf! It never worked before!"

"So we'll fucking try again, damn it! You can't just keep doing this for fuck's sake!" he rises angrily to his feet. "You know what you said last night?" he asks. "_Do_ you?"

I don't answer. Of course I don't remember what I said last night, I don't even remember the night at all. Stupid question.

"You said," he starts, and it's almost immediately evident that he's struggling to repeat me. The closer he gets the easier it is to notice that his eyes are getting glassy. "You said, '_I hope I don't wake up'_."

I swallow hard and clutch my throat again as the pain intensifies, while staring at the floor, feeling awful as always.

"I mean," he continues, his voices quaking. "You _said _that, you _said _'_I don't want to wake up, ever'. _So I sat there and I _stayed_ there so I could check your pulse every thirty minutes! I can't do this anymore. I mean, I can't do _that _anymore! I can't, I can't just always wonder when the next time is the last time, when the next time you really _don't_ wake up, or the next time you seize and they can't get you back, or the next time you _completely_ fuck your liver, or the next time I have to watch them funnel charcoal down your throat, or the next time they have to do CPR because you practically _die_ for fifteen minutes, or the next time—"

"Ryan…" I shake my head wildly, the pain in my chest and throat is starting to make it hard to breathe. For a split second I wonder if I'm having one of those panic attacks again, but considering I'm drunk or hung-over the majority of the time, and that the last time I did have one, it didn't feel this painful, I decide it's something else entirely. I feel warm liquid rising in my throat, excruciatingly slow, but I figure it's a little too late to be throwing up any liquor.

"Damn it, Bosco, or the next time—" Ryan continues, but his voice is only a distant mumble now that I'm consumed with this new and foreign sensation of drowning. I guess he figures I was trying to interrupt him as he listed all the ways he doesn't want to see me anymore (ie: half-dead), but really, I'm just trying to get his attention. I'm just trying to get his help.

"No, Ryan, not that," I gasp, leaning forward, feeling faint. I put both my hands loosely around my neck in official choking signal style. "I can't…"

"You can't what?" he asks, putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me as I stumble. His tone changes almost instantly from accusatory despair to terrified concern.

"_Breathe_," I manage to choke out, and then it all happens as if someone's been watching it unfold and just now decides to press fast-forward. The warm liquid in my throat soars up into my mouth, revealing itself as blood as I taste the iron and it spills out and down my jaw in deep red streams. It doesn't seem to stop; blood continues involuntarily filling my throat and mouth and spilling onto the floor until I'm so lightheaded that I stumble backwards. Wolf is now only a frantic blur clutching his cell phone to his hear and shouting.

I black out before I ever hit the carpet.

* * *

**March 21, 2009**

I stare at a blinding, desolate wall. I look for imperfections. There are none. It seems untouched by time. I listen to the figures outside the door.

_He won't talk to anyone_, they say. They use words like_catatonic _and _unresponsive_. They say I am a _traumatic case._

They haven't let me see Wolf or Amber in days. They don't tell me what day it is, so I can't really be positive. They don't tell me the time. They just ask questions. _What year is it?_ they ask. The same questions. The same order. Over and over. _Who's the President?_ Do _you know where you are? When were you born? Do you know why you're here?_ I give them no answers.

When Wolf sits down in front of me, my heartbeat revs. He doesn't ask any questions. I am relieved.

_Taking him home_, he announces. Thank God. It's so fucking boring in here.

_That is extremely ill-advised!_ someone says.

_I don't care,_ Wolf replies. _Come on, I'm signing you out._

_This could happen again_, someone else warns.

I follow him to the car, in my head, silently, I recite: _2009. Obama. The psych ward. October 11th, 1972. I tried to kill myself._

~*~

**April 3, 2009  
**

I am acutely aware that pacing back and forth this wildly, and mumbling incoherent phrases to myself, is likely the exact reason why it appears I should be here, locked up like a mental case. But I'm really just trying to figure it all out. Talking to myself helps me deal with the isolation and the solitude and the unyielding knowledge of what I nearly did for the second, third, or fourth time. Honestly, I'm not keeping track of how many times I miserably fail to successfully end it all.

When Wolf arrives, looking painfully sane and terribly out of place walking through a psych ward, I can't contain myself any longer. My words need to be heard by someone other than me. I need to look out a window and see something besides reinforced Plexiglas. I need to wake up in the morning with more of a purpose than to be observed downing six zombifying pills. I need to go home; I need to go back to work. I can't think of anywhere better for me than that. Which I guess is strange since that's the exact scenario that landed me here to begin with.

"I have to get the _hell_ out of here!" I all but scream, raking shaky hands through my hair. I can't remember if the shaking is a side effect from the buffet of anti-psychotics I'm on or if my hands started doing that on their own a long time ago.

Wolf doesn't answer me.

"Come _on,_ sign me out, _please_, for the love of _God_, I'm losing my _mind_," I plead, and then he tilts his head sideways at the irony of my words and I, too, fall silent. He sighs finally, and I feel like we're making progress. I feel like he might come through for me again, despite having every reason in the world to keep me locked up and throw the key in the East River.

"I don't know what to do," he begins, sounding completely despaired by his crisis of conscience. "You're not okay in here, and you're not okay out of here." When he puts it in that perspective, I sound especially fucked.

"I d_o_! I do know what to do, Ryan. Get me out of here. Please. I shouldn't be here, you know it. I shouldn't be on the _fucking_ psych floor!"

"What about next time?" he asks, cynical. "Next time you probably won't even _make_ it to the _fucking_ psychiatric floor because they'll _PRONOUNCE _you in the_ fucking_ E.R.!"

"There won't _be_ a_ next time_," I shout, advancing. "I'm not _crazy_, Wolf."

"You tried to kill yourself, _again_!"

I shake my head violently, my eyes stinging. But I give up on yelling, on shouting; now I'm standing just inches away from him, from his exhausted posture and funereal expression that almost says, _You are already dead._

I form my words cautiously.

"I tried to kill the _pain_."

* * *

**Present Day – December 19, 2011  
**

I wake up in what seems like a very familiar ICU room, to experience something not out of the ordinary: people telling me to cough as they extubate, shining pen lights into my eyes, adjusting my IV drip rate, and then vanishing again. You would think the whole revolving-hospital-visit thing would have gotten old by now, and it has, but, I've given up on fighting the demons that land me in these situations to begin with. I'm just _done._ I have no feeling anymore, unless numbness to feeling is actually a feeling in itself.

For some length of time that I'm unable to comprehend, I fade in and out of consciousness. At some point I recognize two figures in the room, their voices raised, but my eyes flutter closed again, and so all I can do is strain to listen. The first voice is clearly Wolf – even in my dazed or drugged state, I know it's him. And when he speaks, his voice is low and guttural, almost reminiscent of his name; almost a growl. His words are calculated. I can't see him, but I imagine his face is serious, his black eyes unmatchable on the scale of blackness.

"_I've_ watched him the past six-and-something years. I've watched him slowly killing himself, removing himself from everything but me and the job. Hell, he's almost lost that a million times now because he can hardly re-qualify every year. _I've_ been there when he drinks. When he drinks so much he vomits, when he smokes eight packs a day, when he hasn't slept in four nights. When he cries so hard he can't _breathe_…"

I take a sharp breath and hope they don't notice. As much as I feel like I should intervene, I can't help but want to hear what else Wolf will say. His words have already shaken me; already burned me. I figure it can't get much worse. And I realize now, lying in this hospital bed – numb, incapable of moving, my head pounding – just how vulnerable I am. How much I've depended on Wolf, and how much he's come to know about me. I wince when he catches his breath and continues his relentless tirade.

"_I've_ been there! _Me_, not you!"

When the other voice finally cuts in, I realize that it's Faith. I struggle to make some kind of sense in this senseless turn of events: why would the two of them be here, arguing over their loyalty to me? Anyway, her voice is slightly softer and timid, although there's a presence of certainty in it; of faltering defensiveness.

"For thirteen years…" she begins, but Wolf's louder, angry voice stops her sharply.

"Thirteen years?! Thirteen years, _what?_ I don't give a shit what happened before he transferred. I don't care. I don't _care_ because that was _then_. This is now. _This_ is what matters." Through a slight blur I can make out Wolf's panicked gestures as he motions toward me; toward the bed. But is he talking about me, specifically? What matters? Me? Or the state I'm in?

"…And don't tell me everything you went through. Don't tell me how hard it was. Don't tell me, because you weren't here the past six years. You weren't here in '08 when he got stabbed. When _we_ got stabbed. And you weren't here when he almost put his service piece to his temple and I…"

I manage to force my eyelids open a bit wider, just long enough to see her shocked expression. She looks like she's searching for words – for some kind of response – but is at a loss. She backs up weakly toward the wall next to the door. And whether Wolf is right – whether or not he's justified – he's taken it way too far. I want to say something. I want to tell him to stop, to be quiet, to stop hurting her. Even though, hypocritically, part of me wants her hurt. Part of me, somewhere inside, wants her to know how it feels. Regardless, my mouth refuses to open, which I guess is for the best. Now I don't have to decide.

"What? You didn't know?" Wolf's voice is more accusing than ever. "Oh right, _you weren't there_. Just like you haven't been. You know what? You don't deserve to be here."

"He'd want me here, Ryan," she speaks up, her voice stern but quivering, and somewhat hopeful – as if she hopes I'd want her here, but she isn't sure anymore. She's not sure because she doesn't really know me anymore. I want to tell her I do. I want to open my eyes, sit up, look at her and tell her she's right. Tell her I do want her here; tell her I need her here. The fact that I can't do this – that I can't even talk because of whatever I've done to my body – angers me to no end. It sears through my veins, meeting the already-present pissed-offedness that's directed toward both of them. Towards Wolf for telling her the truth, towards her for giving up on me, towards myself for having self-destructed so badly this time that now I've put the only two people I have left at odds. And finally, anger for not even having enough damn strength to so much as open my mouth and tell them both to shut the fuck up and get me some Goddamn morphine. You'd think with how much rage I harbor, that I'd at least be able to do that.

Wolf responds, this time his voice is lower, quieter. Quieter, but still angry, still punishing, and still critical. My only hope is that he at least keeps it this quiet. "I'm sure he would," he tells her, and then hesitates. "But…I'll never know why."

_Fuck, Wolf!_ He knows how to verbally kick someone right in the stomach. He doesn't do it often but he definitely knows how. He's always known what to say to make me face myself, the truth, my demons…my fucked up life. Maybe words aren't enough to actually get me to change, but they definitely keep me aware of just how far I've fallen.

"He needs me to…" Once again, Faith's reply is short-lived.

"He doesn't know _what_ he needs!" Wolf's voice spirals up again about a million octaves. So much for hoping.

"I'm not leaving!" her voice is nearly as loud as his and this time, although tear-ridden, somewhat stronger.

"Fine!" I hear Wolf's footsteps as he nears my bed. A chair in close proximity scrapes the floor and so I assume he's sat down. "Do whatever the hell you want," he calls, his tone a combination of contempt and surrender. I feel my hand lifted and squeezed. Another sharp pain shoots through my head, giving me just the will I need to open my eyes fully and, with what's left of my vision, see.

The room I'm in is typical; I've been in many just like it in the past: White, barren walls that look like chalk, and cold, ammonia-fraught air that smells as sterile as the walls look. It's dim, the main light turned off, light from the immaculate corridor flooding inside, and small light sources from the countless, retarded machines they have me on. I struggle to remember why I'm here, to remember what happened. I glance down, gasping at my chest. It's open, bloody, with gaping holes up and down my abdomen. I can feel hot blood scathing my forehead, my cheekbone, and into my mouth. I feel like I'm drowning. I look up, panicked, at my disillusioned surroundings.

"Hey, hey," a soft, familiar voice breaks in, drawing me back to the present. Back to 2011. Wolf is looking at me, his expression concerned. Confused, I look down at my chest. It's dry. Blood-free. I wipe my face. It, too, has no remnants of blood. My heartbeat slows back to what feels like a more normal rhythm. I mean, I don't know what's normal. These days I just gauge whether or not I feel like I'm having an MI, and if I'm not, it's a good day.

I look at Wolf, then toward the door. Faith is where she was minutes ago, only this time she's slid down the wall, crouching slightly, head in her hands. Over the monotonous jack hammering in my head, I can hear her crying, ever so quietly. The conversation I overheard comes back to me, I feel myself growing angry again as the confusion from the flashback wears off.

"Wa…water," I choke. It's not exactly the thing I was hoping to say, but it's a start. Matter of fact, I didn't even try to say it, but now that it's out, I realize I've never been thirstier in my life. Wolf takes his eyes off of mine to look toward Faith, who has glanced up at the sound of my voice and then gets to her feet.

"I'll get it," she offers, her wounded eyes scanning me, Wolf, and then the floor before she rushes out.

Now it's just me and Wolf.

"You feel okay?" he asks, but his tone is indicative of one that knows I don't. It's like he knows it's a completely fucking stupid question, but he asks it anyway out of obligation or something. "Do you remember anything?"

I shrug. I shrug because it's easier than answering fifty billion questions. I shrug because it's less painful than shaking my head. And by less painful, I mean it only feels like a dozen knives are penetrating my muscles instead of a hundred. I suck in air as if it'll give me the energy to speak, but even the simple task of breathing hurts.

"I feel like hell, man," I mumble, wincing. I have a very faint recollection of choking and vomiting for what seemed like a lifetime, so that and an ET tube later, I feel like I've swallowed razors.

"I know," he nods. He replaces my hand on sheets, carefully, like I'm fragile, as if I'm glass and if he isn't careful, I'll shatter into a million pieces. And then, like always, he'll have to pick me up and put me back together.

"What happened, Wolf? I get shot?" I laugh dryly, instantly regretting it when more pain invades my body.

His head rocks back and forth slowly. He looks away, up, toward the muted TV in the corner. It supplies a glare that lights up the side of his face, and it's now that I see how exhausted he looks – how overdrawn; how worried. "You started bleeding internally two days ago."

His words freeze me; I've lost two days? _Fuck_. I try to remember the details, but I can't. My head is full of fog. The past two days, or the one before those, aren't vague or out of order, they don't even _register_. I don't even know what day it is. I don't speak, I just turn my head toward the door. I can't face him. I don't remember what I've done to cause this, but whatever it was, I sure feel like I've done it.

For a few minutes, we're both silent, the air between us dead. What am I supposed to say? I'm sorry? I'm sorry that once again you had to scrape me off of the floor and rush me to the hospital? _I'm sorry._ It sounds so futile and obsolete. Why bother?

"Do you need anything?" he asks quietly.

I shrug, "I don't know what I need, remember?" My response is harsher than I intended. I glance at him long enough to see him grit his teeth at my attitude.

"How much did you hear?"

I scoff, pretending to ignore the pain in my neck, chest, head and stomach. If someone told me I'd been hit by a bus, I'd believe them. Hell, if someone told me I'd been kidnapped by a mob, dragged into an alley and beaten until sunrise, I'd also believe that. Because I don't see how internal bleeding could make someone feel like _this_.

I shrug, "Forget it," I decide not to tell him that she _was _there when we got stabbed a few years back. That she was one of the first ones there, in fact. I have this feeling his opinion would hardly waver. I stare off toward the exit.

"I think she got lost," I observe. "The water, I mean."

"Probably took my advice," Wolf mutters. "And left."

"Christ, Wolf. Leave her alone."

"Why should I?" he snaps defensively. His raised voice hits my eardrum ruthlessly. I wince.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"I need her," I say, ignoring his apology and trying to sound strong but failing miserably. I sound weak, injured, desperate. I should be used to feeling like this by now, but I'm not and I still despise it. "I need her, and I know you don't think I know what I need. Because I'm so fucked up, because of this," I point to the machines and the bed.

"I didn't say that," Wolf denies.

"Well, whatever," I wave my hand dismissively.

"What about me?" he demands. "What about _me_? Can I just leave for four and a half years and then waltz back in whenever I feel like it's convenient?"

"I know, I know," I surrender. "I know it doesn't make sense. I don't expect you to understand. I don't even understand myself. But it doesn't change the fact that I need her. I _need_ both of you. Don't make me make a choice. Don't do that, Wolf. Please."

Wolf bites his lip and nods dejectedly, and we fall silent again.

A doctor appears several minutes later, "You a next of kin?" he asks Wolf. "Brother?"

"His partner," Wolf answers reflexively, unprepared when the doctor's mouth contorts into a small 'o' of realization.

"I mean," Wolf stutters, "We're cops. NYPD. Whatever."

"Right, of course," the doctor nods. He goes on to explain to Wolf, or maybe to both of us, but I sure as hell can't exactly absorb the information, something about how they managed to stop the bleeding but that I have to stay here a few days, and it could 'potentially happen again'. Apparently, all the drinking I've done over the past nearly-seven years has finally physically destroyed me.

"In the long-run, though," Wolf says cautiously, "I mean. He'll be okay?" Not surprisingly, ever-the-logical, he's jumping in with questions and concern for the future. That's the difference between us. While I'm working on the next five minutes, he's making blueprints for the next five years.

The doctor looks grave, "He should recover," I probably shouldn't like the way he says the word 'should', but at this point, the fact that I even remember the definition of the word is progress. "But his liver is cirhosed."

I breathe in slowly. So I've known that for about a year now. I'm waiting for this guy to tell Wolf something that I'm not already well aware of.

"It's seriously compromised."

"How serious?" Wolf asks.

"Very," the doctor says staidly. I wish he was Canyon instead, but I know that he's down in the ER, and I know he probably has no idea that once again I've ignored his warnings and am a few floors above him right now. "He needs to know how serious. One more drink could send him into complete liver failure. And if that happens, he will not be eligible for UNOS, due to his past…his medical history."

The doctor is dancing around the topic to remain politically correct, but basically what he's saying is that in the event I do entirely finish completely fucking my liver to hell, I wouldn't get listed on UNOS due to the fact that they don't have a habit of handing out organs to suicidal alcoholics. This, like everything else the man has said, does not leave me any more enlightened than before he walked in.

~*~

A while later, I can sense that Wolf is still here, sitting, but I don't fight my body's will to continue sleeping. You'd think being in a coma for over forty-eight hours would be enough to make someone never want to sleep again, but apparently that isn't the case. Besides, I don't want to face him anyway. I'm too guilty. I'm too ashamed. So maybe sleep is the easy way out, I don't know. I just know that I need it. I just know my mind is pleading to drift off voluntarily for a while, instead of by the force of dropping blood pressure.

_Where's Faith, _I wonder.

It's something that flickers through my head repeatedly. She hasn't returned since leaving to get water. Maybe Wolf is right, maybe she did leave. Maybe his outburst really got to her after all – maybe whatever friendship I thought they had, simply from the mutuality of knowing me, was never all that genuine. Maybe it never really ran that deep. Or maybe it did, at some point, but all the stress of dealing with me has finally driven them apart. And if she doesn't come back, should I even be surprised? Do I really expect her to? And if she doesn't, who could blame her? Who could blame her for not wanting to confront the past and all of its fucking demons, and for not wanting to deal with her alcoholic, suicidal ex-partner? It seems pretty justified when I put in perspective like that.

_Please come back._

The desperate, bitter, self-pitying thoughts racing through my mind are interrupted when I feel a small portion of the left side of the bed cave in from weight. I use the last of whatever energy I have to open my eyes again. The room is still blurry. I still can't tell if it's because I'm so tired or if I've officially gone blind – if it were the latter, I guess it would be a long time coming. But I can somehow still see Wolf. I can see his dark hair, but not his face; it's down, hidden, pressed into the side of the bed, against my arm. And, through that same awful shattering in my head that has yet to let up ever since I awoke, I hear the beginning of a more deafening, more depressing sound.

Crying.

Believe it or not, there have been times when things weren't quite this fucked up. Maybe they were times that seem a lot longer ago than they actually were. And maybe there were still nights when I drank too much (understatement, but, humor me), and maybe they were still nights when Wolf cried because he just couldn't hold up that brave front much longer before it was broken down by all of the hell he'd been through. So maybe there's never been a time where things were completely okay. But there were times when things were better – a lot better. I know this, because, in spite of everything, I still remember them.

And I can't do much more for Wolf right now than I can do for myself. So I let my eyes close and my mind wander.

* * *

**Four years, six months earlier — July 9, 2007:  
**

Me and Wolf have a good day at work. The radio is refreshingly quiet. A few disorderlies, a false business alarm, and a handful of traffic stops. No domestics. Not the entire shift. No DBs. I complain that I can't tape off a crime scene. Wolf says Faith will still be on Earth when we are through. He says we have plenty of time to fight. We speed around. We have lunch with 7-9 Evan (Mason Royal and Turner, a decent rookie) and Shepherd and Stan. They tell us about the moron who blew his foot off with illegal fireworks over Fourth of July weekend.

Shepherd says, motioning wildly with his hands, "Nothing left of it but pink mist, all over the concrete; he asks if we can reattach it!" and our table explodes in laughter.

*

"I'm not worried; they'll probably keep us around until we're good and old," Wolf shrugs later on, as we ride out the rest of the shift while halfheartedly discussing the declining economy and resulting hiring freeze. "Put us on the desk eventually, but they won't kick us out 'til we're pushing seventy," He sighs, continuing on nonchalantly, "Department can't afford us but it's so desperate for bodies, probably keep us on the street up until we're sixty."

"That's a great visual, Wolf, really," I announce sarcastically, "Me, still running around out here in twenty-five years."

"Look, its job security, man," he says. "This is what we signed up for."

"That's what _you _signed up for," I laugh. "Me, I just got out of the Army and did what every other Ranger in the early nineties who got dumped back in New York did: I joined the NYPD. Plus, it's not like they're tryin' to do us any favors. Like you said, they'll keep us out here until we're senile, hoping if we don't get killed we'll eventually eat our own gun and then," I toss up my hands, "Voilá! One less pension to pay out."

Wolf looks over and smiles, "Touché," he says, and then turns back to the road. I should probably be bored by this particular shift, but I'm not. I've seen more action in just over two years here in BedStuy than I probably did in any four spent at the 5-5, so every now and then I don't mind a slow day. Ironically, I used to think that if I ever ended up being okay with an idea like that, it meant that I was turning into Sully and, as a cure, should immediately spend a weekend at the firing range or at bars picking up women half my age just to remind myself of my identity.

*

**September 2, 2007:**

Most nights, and tonight is no exception, me and Wolf go home together. We watch football and talk. About everything: the job, the politics of the job, our parents, or the absence of our parents, or the unsolicited presence of our parents. Sometimes we broach difficult topics like Faith, or more painful subjects like what exactly the unsolicited presence of our parents (re: fathers) actually meant. Sometimes we don't talk about anything in particular. Sometimes we just drink, although admittedly, me more than Wolf. Amber comes with us a lot, after we scoop her up off the side of Atlantic Avenue on our way home, where she usually starts walking even though we tell her to wait. We used to drop her off at her aunt's, but she's never home, or if she is, Amber usually explains the shouting matches she walks into every night. I guess it makes sense why me and Wolf are compelled to help; she's only a few more emotional scars away from being younger versions of ourselves, although she hides the damage a hell of a lot better.

Wolf tries to help her with her summer Psychology homework. "Sorry," he says, after staring intently at the assignment long enough to make _my _eyes hurt, though I guess that isn't saying much these days. "I guess I don't remember this shit as well as I thought."

"Damn," she sighs. "If I don't get an A in this class, I'll never get into NYU next fall."

Wolf says something supportive. I just tell her, "College is a bitch," while watching the Giants throw a pathetic interception. "That's why I didn't go and Wolf didn't finish."

She steals her book back, "Don't inspire me or anything."

-

* * *

**-**

**Present Day, December 20, 2011**

Amber has been propped up beside my bed for several hours, long sleeves pulled down tight and clutched in her hands, something that seems to be her wardrobe staple these days. She looks tired and thin and I chalk it up to all of her studying and all-nighters and probably most significantly, the fact that she's been around me for so long. After all, other than actually living it, I can't really think of anything that would be more draining or traumatizing than bearing witness to all of this shit.

*

I spend another depressing day awake in the ICU at Wolf's insistence, but then sign myself out AMA. Technically they can't hold me here against my will as they've done before, since this time I didn't directly cause any of this to happen, at least not in the eyes of the hospital. Wolf argues over the semantics of the policy and tries urgently to convince them all that I am indeed completely incapable of not drinking, to which they respond is insufficient reason to admit me, to which _he_ responds angrily that if they let me walk out he will sue them if and when I inevitably consume that one final drink that will officially destroy my organs once and for all. Of course, he knows that legally he'd have no case and that if I do drink it would be on me, and no one else. Unfortunately, it also means that as always, he'd be around to deal with the aftermath.

~*~

I find myself at Faith's after somehow eluding Wolf's presence for a small window of time, during which I assume he's down at that rehab center, Manhattan Hope, negotiating a spot for me under the care of Micah, based off of the phone call I overheard and the way he stormed through the apartment pouring anything remotely alcoholic down the drain. I assume it was Micah's advice, although it's not the first time he's tried this preventive measure. But just emptying Listerine into the sink doesn't mean I might not find some other access, so, he also stole my car keys and my wallet before leaving.

Faith is, without a car or money, a very long, cold walk away, but one I'm willing to make, which is how I end up here, at her door. She answers and lets me in without interrogation, but probably only because I'm fucking freezing and it's obviously by the way the wind has chapped my lips and reddened my face, and how the temperature has made my jacket look completely obsolete.

"No Miller," I observe, looking around the apartment relieved.

"No Miller," she confirms, "At work." She looks back at me, concerned, like I might just start randomly coughing up blood or blackout or something, like I always seem to do in Wolf's presence. Honestly, I'm not really sure how she'd handle it. She's always rushed to the hospital in the past, when he called her. Now I'm not sure if he'd even tell her if something happened, which reminds me of the reason why I'm here to begin with.

"I'm sorry about what Wolf said the other day. In the hospital, I mean." It occurs to me that _sorry _is the probably the most common word out of my mouth when it comes to talking to her or Wolf or Amber or the lieutenant.

She laughs a little, not a happy laugh, not an angry one, more of a sarcastic one that implies what I said was ridiculous, "You don't have to apologize for _Wolf_."

I shrug, sitting down, "Sorta do."

"No you don't, he was…well, he was right," she tugs on the NYPD shirt she has on, which is clearly Miller's, judging by the way it hangs off her shoulders and over her jeans. "He's been there for you way more than I have since…since, everything."

I shake my head but she continues before I can disagree; before I can try to think of instances when she really was there for me, like she used to be, but I'm thankful for the interruption when I realize…I can't really think of…_any_.

"I guess he's just braver than I've been. I never know what to do, Bosco. I never know how to help you. At least Wolf tries." She tosses her hands up helplessly, "It's like, even though I'm afraid, and I _am afraid_, I've been afraid _for years_, it's like I still freeze or something. I try to shut it out, pretend it's not happening, because if I admit that it is, then I'm admitting that I don't know what to do and I'm just watching you d…"

She stops and I nod; she doesn't need to finish the sentence for me to know what she was going to say. She turns so I can't see her eyes, wanders into the kitchen and leans into the fridge, almost as a distraction. "Do you want a dr—damn it!" she slams the door shut and stands up, shaking her head.

I stand up and walk over, I can't help but laugh. The whole situation isn't funny. It's sad, it's desperate, and in some sick, twisted, ironic way, it's _hilarious._

"Do I want a drink?"

"I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. I just meant water. Or something," she sighs. "You know what I mean."

I smile, "I know what you mean. Water's good."

She gets me the water and then stands there looking embarrassed for a few seconds so I decide to change the subject.

"The kids?"

"Emily and Charlie? You know their fine, Bosco," she tells me, trying to get to the bottom of my motive, aside from apologizing on behalf of Wolf's earlier tirade, which really was a genuine reason for showing up. "What about Amber?"

"Okay I guess," I think about how she looked earlier and brush it off again. "Taking school too seriously."

Faith studies me for several seconds, "We can talk about Mann if you want to."

"Nah," I shake my head. It's all come together now, anyway, everything that happened after I got out of the hospital back then: the stares, the hushed silence when I walked into a crowded room, or the way a group of uniforms would fall quiet if I walked by. I always chalked it up to the fact that most of them probably thought I was going to die that day, or at the least become a vegetable forever, or the fact that my _someone-played-target-practice-with-an-automatic-weapon _side of my face wasn't exactly a sight people got used to overnight. But now, looking back on everything, I realize it does make more sense that they knew the truth all along, and they knew that I didn't, and they'd all come up with some reason to justify not telling me. Whatever it was, it's history now, and at Sully's insistence, I'm fighting like hell to let it be.

"You shouldn't have left the hospital, Bosco," she says and it sounds like something she's wanted to point out from the minute I walked in. Her voice is a little shaky, a little worried, a lot different from the only slightly-concerned or indifferent tone I'm used to hearing. "Because this could turn really bad."

My cell phone vibrates before I can reply, which probably a good thing, since I'm not sure what to say to that anyway – I thought things already were really bad. I pull the phone from my pocket and look down at the screen: _Wolf calling._ I don't answer. A few seconds later: _Wolf calling._ And again: _Wolf calling._

"Wolf?" Faith asks. Because, really, who else would be looking so feverishly for me in all of my despair? "Are you going to answer it?"

I stare at the phone a little longer, trying to figure out why I'm suddenly so mad, I mean, if there's a reason more specific than just my general crappy circumstances or the feeling that I've been backed into a corner. "No," I decide. Faith looks disappointed by my attitude, but not necessarily surprised.

_Amber calling. _Damn it. It's probably Wolf on the other end – he's played this trick before because he knows that when it comes to Amber I have too much of a guilty conscious to not answer, just in the event she needs something or is, for whatever reason, in some kind of unlikely but imminent danger.

I flip it open and take the risk, "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?" Wolf's voice is loud. _Fuck._

"A fucking bar, Ryan, where the hell do you think I am?" across the room, Faith widens her eyes at my sarcasm. I continue, "I'm at Faith's. She forgives you. I don't."

"I just picked up Amber and I'm coming to get you," he says, completely ignoring me. He sounds exasperated but somehow triumphant. "You're going downtown soon."

I grit my teeth almost involuntarily; I'm still not sure why I'm so fucking pissed off. Then it occurs to me that my recent hospital stay, comatose or otherwise, was the longest I've been without consuming mass quantities of alcohol in years, and I can't get used to it. Of course, they had to give me some, since they weren't equipped to detox me, but I should still be on a warpath for a drink right now.

"Let me talk to her for a sec," he says casually.

"So you can yell at her some more?" I ask.

Faith steps closer, "Bosco, its fine, give me the phone."

"No," I snap, holding it up and shouting. "Go to hell, Wolf!"

She manages to get it from my hand, "Ryan, it's me," she says, and I start to pace.

"This is…this is…bullshit!" I mutter, but she ignores me, wandering to the other side of the room, likely discussing how to keep me corralled here until he can safely sign me in to some godforsaken rehab place that will just leave me more depressed and more strung-out like they've all done in the past.

"I know," she's mumbling, trying to keep her voice low. "I did. Yeah. I don't. Okay. I'm not sure. Well, I think he already is. Okay, sure. Absolutely."

"_Fuck_," I mutter, and in complete frustration, heave the now-empty glass I've been holding across the kitchen. It shatters loudly against the sink, almost exploding into thousands of shards that litter the floor.

Faith glances up at the commotion but again, seems unsurprised, and turns back to her conversation with _my partner, _"Oh, glass. Yes, but its fine. Its fine, Ryan. No, he wouldn't. I'm not. He wouldn't. Okay then, bye."

I'm trying to figure out what it is she seems so sure I wouldn't do. Slit my wrists on the broken glass? She _did_ give it to me in the first place. But maybe it's just Wolf who sees the danger in leaving me to my vices around seemingly harmless household objects. Giving me something made of glass is like giving a sheet to a death row inmate.

"Bosco, can you just sit down? Please? Until he gets here?"

I stop pacing and take up wringing my hands together anxiously. I hesitate and then say, simply, "No."

"Please?" I guess I must look like I'm about to break something else.

"No," I repeat, and then turn around to face her. "Why don't you just tell me where you keep it, huh, Faith? 'Cause I fucking know it's here."

"I don't what you're talking about," she bluffs miserably.

"Yes you _do_!" I insist, "Come on, the fucking Crown Royal, or the top-_fucking_-shelf vodka, the brandy, the scotch that Miller brings home!"

She shakes her head, "I don't have it, Bosco! Why the hell would I keep that around when I _know_ you're going to show up looking for it?!"

I point to my chest, "_I_ haven't come here in _months_!"

"Miller doesn't even _drink," _she declares. "I already married a drunk once, why would I have ever risked repeating _that_ mistake?"

"Bullshit!"

"Bosco, in case you forgot, I grew up with an alcoholic so—"

"So did I!" I nearly scream, before lowering my voice to a hostile, shaky pitch, "And I'm sorry that _I'm the one_ who turned out worse because of it."

This seems to successfully quiet her, though I'm not sure if it's because I've made a point or if she's just tired of arguing with me.

"Give me my phone," I demand, after standing in silence for awhile. "I'm leaving."

"No," she says, clutching it tightly in her hands. "You need to wait for Wolf."

"I need to fucking leave," I persist, and she continues stalling me, because she knows there's no reason for me to really leave unless I have some kind of means of getting rid of this feeling, and with my keys and wallet still kidnapped, I sort of at least need my phone.

When Wolf shows up with Amber a few minutes later, he lets himself in, probably because of all the fighting on this side of the door. Faith looks relieved by their arrival. On the other hand, I'm less relieved and more unsettled by the visit, more cornered, more trapped, more desperate for a drink, more terrified of whatever plan Wolf has devised to lock me up someplace where I know I'll be forced through the pain of drying out. Honestly, I'd rather die. So, seeing only one way out, I wrestle for the phone, twisting her arm in the process.

"Bosco, calm the fuck down!" Wolf orders. Amber is beside him, looking worried, but surely she's seen enough of the two of us fighting to not be completely shocked.

"I can't calm the fuck down, Wolf!" I seethe, and I feel out of control, completely, entirely out of control. It's not a new experience; it's just more intense than it's been in a long time. See, most of the time I'm not this volatile. I might be angry all the time, but I'm also usually completely wasted, too, or hungover, so I reserve my anger for the effortless self-destructive tendencies and passive aggressive responses to anyone who tries to help. Anytime I've ever actually thrown things against the wall was either when I didn't have alcohol for a significant period of time (ie: more than a shift's length, and even that's pushing it), like now, or before any of this crap ever started and I actually knew what I was so pissed off about.

"Fine, take it!" Faith snaps, giving in finally and shoving the cell phone into my fist. "And while you're at it, left bottom drawer in the guest room! Go ahead!"

Wolf puts in his head in his hands. I wouldn't blame him at this point if he bailed. I wouldn't have blamed him for doing that years ago. Honestly, it's a mystery to me why he's even still around.

"Why the fuck would you tell him that, Faith?!" he demands, raising his hands from his face in disbelief. "Why the fuck!?"

"Because!" she stands up, her eyes watering, her voice failing under the stress, "Because, I can't do this! I don't know _how_! I'm sorry that I haven't been there, but I just can't do it. I'm glad you can watch him do this, Ryan, and I'm glad you can try to help, but he obviously doesn't _want_ it," she throws her hands up in what appears to be a combination of hopelessness and surrender, "Maybe it's weak and selfish like you implied, but I can't handle it! So if you don't mind, I'm just going to go back to pretending none of this is happening, because I don't know him anymore. I haven't known him in a long time."

I stand, dangerously and suspiciously still until she turns to me and finishes. Neither of us can really get a word in edgewise until she's done anyways.

"…I don't know you anymore, and I _can't do this_. I'd say that you're already dead, but you're more like half-alive. The department should have kicked you out a long time ago."

I interpret this as, _So, go drink, Bosco. Kill yourself, before you kill somebody else, _but what she actually says next is far worse, and I don't have to do any interpreting.

"None of this seems familiar to you at all?" she questions. "Really? _Really_? Nothing you do ever makes you think about Glen Hobart?"

No one's thrown _that_ name at me in years.

What happens next happens too fast. Wolf can't intervene in time. Faith can't intervene in time. Amber can't intervene in time. My conscience, if I ever had one, can't even intervene. In fact, I hardly realize it myself until I notice I've dropped my phone to the floor, and that my hand is trembling, and my knuckles are throbbing. I hardly realize it myself until I see the blood. And as soon as I realize what's happened — what _I've just done_ — as soon as I see her tear-streaked, bloodied face - the apartment begins to spin. I feel disoriented, like I've been drugged, like the past six years have just converged and peaked into this one moment where I did the one thing I swore I would never do. The one thing I'm not supposed to be capable of. It's only through a very thick, disillusioned haze that I can still even see what is happening.

"Fuck!" Wolf recites repeatedly, tilting her chin up to survey the damage. "You wanna call this in?" he asks. Finally_._ It finally occurred to him that I just committed felony domestic battery and that locking me up wouldn't be such a bad idea at this point.

"I swear to _God_, we can call this in. I'll back you up, I'll tell them_ everything_."

For once he isn't martyring himself for me. Faith however is unwilling, "No, don't," she says, surprisingly resolute. "Don't call it in."

"I'll tell them everything," Wolf repeats. "I won't back him up, I swear." He turns to me, suddenly, jerking me from the surreal feeling of watching myself stand here while they talk in desperate, shocked voices. "I won't _fucking_ back you up this time!"

I don't reply. There isn't exactly anything to say now, not anymore. Now everything is clear, now the haze is gone, now the confusion has lifted, now I realize that unlike most of the consequences of my actions, I actually care about this one, I actually feel like I've just bottomed out so badly that there's no possible recovery. You can't get this bad and get better. And for that reason, I decide I'm out of options.

"What about John?" he asks, staring her down for answers. "What the _hell_ do you plan to tell him when he asks who the fuck split your lip open?"

She hesitates, pressing the sleeve of Miller's shirt against her lip. "It's not even that bad. I'll figure it out." With that, she disappears into the bathroom and I'm left entertaining the ironic idea that Miller might in fact murder me, if I intended to be around to murder. I stand, finding it difficult to breathe, and stare down at my chest as it unreliably rises and falls. When Wolf looks at me, I'm beyond the point of wanting to be gone._ I feel like I already am._ So it doesn't matter how he looks at me, because I'm already gone. But to my surprise, I can't exactly read his expression, which is unusual and might unsettle me if I thought I had to face it for much longer. But while I might be unable to decode his face, he seems to see through mine fairly easily. I'm not sure what gives it away — the empty, dead, resigned eyes or the way I turn around and walk swiftly and purposefully into the bedroom — too swiftly, too purposefully.

"Amber!" Wolf calls out, throwing his phone. She catches it swiftly. "Call Royal _right now._"

Wolf is my shadow all the way into the room and my only goal is to get there before he can stop me. It's a child-free, two-cop household: a loaded nine-millimeter is almost guaranteed to be sitting freely in the drawer of the nightstand. And, as predicted, it's there, and I'm picking up the service piece, flicking off the safety, pulling back the chamber, and suddenly there's screaming: desperate, pleading, young, traumatized screams in the background as Amber attempts to explain to Royal over the phone, what exactly is happening. Hell if I even know. Wolf shouts, _Don't fucking do it, _into my face over and over and tries desperately to wrestle the gun from my hand. I keep fighting him for possession, the steel slamming against our hands as we struggle. _Please don't fucking do this, _he continues, his words becoming lost among all of Amber's incoherency. His eyes water profusely, like he's realizing he might actually lose and witness my suicide, which this time, won't be reversed by stomach pumps and charcoal or IV fluids. Just as I think I have the barrel pointed at a sufficient angle to get the job done, he frees his fist from our entangled arms and lands it squarely on my jaw with so much force that I drop the gun and stumble back into the wall, hard. I swear I feel my brain slam against the inside of my skull, temporarily rendering my equilibrium useless. And in almost one final fluid motion, he leans down, picks it up, drops the magazine, and slides it into his jeans.

*


	9. Part 9: Micah Stamford, MD

The Right Thing Part 9 - "Micah Stamford, MD"

_Here's part 9 – not too sure about this one but I promise I know where it's all going eventually. More importantly, THANK YOU all for the kind replies/reviews here and on LJ — it means a lot. :)_

* * *

**December 21, 2011**

"Sorry about this," Wolf mutters. I'm sitting on the edge of a triage bed, leaning over a steel bowl, still spitting out what seems like an awful lot of blood for a single right hook. I don't have a mirror, but I figure there's an ugly bruise on the left side of my face, to go along well with the scar that's been on the other for about six and a half years. I shrug to let him know there's no need to apologize, but he already knows that. He knows he had no choice and that for him, punching me in the face was a comparatively successful outcome to me blowing my brains out.

"This is only temporary, okay?" he says a few minutes later. I stare at the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the pulse oximeter on my finger, Canyon's stethoscope on my chest — listening to Wolf explain how sending me to the psych ward (again) is just a detour and that he's going to get me to Micah as soon as Manhattan Hope has a free detox bed; apparently the time he spent down there negotiating — today and every day the past week when he wasn't beside me in the hospital — is still a work in progress. But MH is new and shiny and huge and regardless of them having a bed shortage or not, it's clear that Wolf could've gotten Micah to get me in, which leaves me to figure this detour is for the purposes of him actually coming up with the thousands of dollars it'll cost just to keep me there. I would object to his effort, if the effort of objecting wasn't so daunting.

I don't look around; instead I just keep my eyes straight ahead on part of a curtain that divides this side of the room into partitions — it hasn't changed in years. I know this because I spend more time here than I do in either of our apartments. Sometimes I think if I'm not at work, I'm in the hospital; and if I'm not at either place, I'm en route to one of them. I start to think about when we first walked in tonight: Wolf filled out an intake form and as soon as Canyon read the words "acutely suicidal", he was ushering us in here, attaching me to machines, and ordering a nurse to get a bed in psych. When they told him that psych was full, that there were no beds, he turned around frantically and shouted, _I don't care. Go upstairs and make room!, _and it seemed to be sufficient enough seeing as I'm still here and everything.

Royal is the one who brought us here, after Amber's desperate phone call to him in the middle of his shift, and he stood outside the curtain and argued loudly for a while with Wolf about what to do with me. In fact, some of his exact words were, "What the hell are we going to do?"

"I'm working on it," Wolf had said.

I could see Royal's silhouette; he was rocking back and forth, his hand restlessly off and on his belt, "This is _insane_, Ryan."

I couldn't agree more, honestly. They'd muttered other things and seemed to come some kind of agreement, because Royal patted Wolf's back and then left.

Speaking of Wolf, he's been sitting across from me on a chair for a couple hours, maybe more, maybe less, while Canyon writes stuff down and walks in and out. Getting me up to psych is quite a process and one I'm fairly used to.

"You should go. For Amber," I mumble quietly, drawing me from my own thoughts and catching both of them off-guard by talking. It is, after all, about the only thing I've said since we got here. Amber seems to be the only thing overriding my complete apathy toward life anymore. All I can do is picture her worrying or being pissed off or hating me but hope that instead, in spite of the whole fucked up situation, she somehow managed to just go to sleep, though I know it's unlikely.

"No," he says, without fail. "Royal took her home, she's fine. I'm staying."

I surrender and after a few seconds of staring at the floor, look up as Canyon rolls toward me on his chair. "I want to get films of your jaw, just in case." He knows, somehow, to talk about anything except the actual disaster at hand. The collateral damage, being my potentially-fractured jaw or cheekbone, is obviously not important, but also much less unsettling. It doesn't mean Canyon won't confront me about what's happened at some point, it just means that he knows better than to do it right now.

"It's probably not even broken, but just because of the direction, I want to be sure," he puts a couple fingers on my jaw and I flinch. "Could be a hairline, we'll see."

I nod, "Fine." Wouldn't it be something? If in the process of trying to disarm me and foil another suicide attempt, Wolf punched me so hard in the face that he broke my jaw? I'd shake my head at the thought, but I don't have the energy, so instead I just stay still, tears stinging the back of my eyes. It's confusing really, how I can go from being so numb to suddenly re-living what I've done and feeling like I might just die from the guilt alone.

"You know," Canyon says to Wolf after a few minutes. "We're not that busy. You can hang out here with him for a while. Don't have to put him on the express upstairs." Being talked about when I'm sitting three feet away is also something I'm fairly used to, so I don't interrupt. And despite the fact that I deserved to be sent upstairs in a straightjacket on the first elevator that opened, if not sent to jail first, I'm still never, ever content with the idea of going up to the fourth floor, so I look at Wolf, pleading silently for him to take Canyon up on his innate compassion.

"Yeah, okay," Wolf agrees quickly, and I close my eyes in relief. After all, the Fourth Floor at St. Mary's isn't really known for anything more than simply managing the unmanageable. There is no such thing as long term success here. They keep you away from your vice just long enough to make you want it more than air, and then release you so you can go and get it. I've yet to point out this fatal flaw to anyone, but I'm pretty sure it's evident since I've never exactly emerged from this place any better than when I went in.

Canyon nods, takes my file and walks out, and Wolfs drags his chair to the wall, so he can sit down again and lean against it. I notice he's been discreetly cradling his fist for awhile. I wonder if it hurts as much as my face does. And I shouldn't ask what I'm about to ask, because I don't know if I want to know the answer, and I shouldn't ask because it might make him realize he doesn't want to anymore and while I hate that he lays everything on the line for me day after day, month after month, year after year, I still need him, and if there's any way to keep him from second guessing his choice, you would think I'd stick to it. But I have to know, for some reason, right now, after everything, after this whole fucking ordeal, I have to know.

"Why do you stay, Wolf?"

He glances up, dark eyes in complete confusion, and says, "Why would I leave?"

* * *

This stay on the psych floor isn't unlike my last visit: I wake up, I take pills, I refuse to talk, I take more pills. Wolf comes to update me on his progress with getting me into MH. And when I complain about being sedated, he tells me _'better sedated than dead'_ and I have to seriously question his idea of quality of life.

When Wolf isn't here, because one of us still has to strap on a vest and make a living, Canyon conveniently appears. Sometimes he shows up after his shift, or during his lunch break, or just whenever he damn well pleases. He doesn't have to wait for visiting hours because he has M.D. behind his name. Mostly he tells me stuff about MH that Wolf doesn't know, like exactly how long the process is and all of the horrible things that can go wrong in detox. He's not trying to discourage treatment; he just likes to explain the hell out of things.

"I'm moving," he says during one of his visits, slightly out of the blue and even more off topic, he segways from rehab to relocation in one sentence. "But I want to stay to see you through this, if it's okay."

"You're moving? What the fuck?" I ask, through my mostly drugged haze. "You just try to slip that in there with, 'it's okay' bullshit?"

He laughs caustically, "No, I wasn't. I'm going to Pittsburgh."

"What the _fuck _is in Pittsburgh?"

"Pittsburgh Memorial, level one trauma center, a chief attending position, better pay, apartments charging a quarter of the rent I'm paying here…"

I'm not exactly sure why I care so much about the fact that he's moving a few hours west. Maybe after everything, I've developed some kind of sick doctor-patient attachment, and anyway, I have nothing else to do with my time here, so I wonder what his motives are. I mean, it's not like he really needs a better paying job and rent isn't exactly a struggle for him, or he could think about moving out of Brooklyn Heights. And he's either home or at the hospital. Honestly, I'm not so sure he'd even notice if he were in New York or New Mexico. I realize, somewhat suddenly, that maybe that's our common link. Maybe that's the link between all of us, between him and me and Wolf and Micah and hell, even Amber. We're all just a bunch of damaged workaholics so cynical about love and life that we can hardly accept the notion of it, let alone do or live the real thing.

So me and Canyon continue to talk aimlessly about Pittsburgh and the medications I'm on, and he writes them down, tells me about his new job, writes some more down, frowns and says he wants them to be changed. Because of these aforementioned meds, most of the stay here blends into one long, ongoing period of time and I'm never quite sure of the date, and only vaguely aware of the hour based on whether or not I'm staring into brown eyes or green ones. And because I refuse to talk to anyone, besides them, I have a lot of time to just think.

Today I think about Amber's birthday a few years back, and the ironic conversation that ensued. I was off work a couple days for discharging my weapon at a perp off of Lafayette that week, a fairly common occurrence but with a mandatory leave nonetheless, so while Wolf begrudgingly joined Prescott for the shift, I picked Amber up at NYU for the day, to spare her a commute. We walked through Central Park at her insistence, a place that, until then, I'd never really liked before. Maybe it's the job talking, but, I always figured it was just a polluted green square where you went if you wanted to get mugged or raped. Hell, sometimes I forgot it existed. But on that day the ground was covered in thin snow and there were, surprisingly, no crimes being committed.

_"Do you think there's more than one person for all of us?" she asked me, a question that had me beat. I had to hope so, otherwise I considered myself shit out of luck. _

_But instead all I said was, "Jesus, Amber, I don't know. You thinking about David again?"_

_She shrugged, "That obvious?"_

_"A little," I smiled. "Look, it wouldn't matter if there was or not. Someone who hits you isn't the one."_

"Okay, I think I figured it out," Canyon announces proudly, tearing me from my mind. "I want to keep you on these two," he circles a couple names on the paper in front of him. "But I don't like these ones," he crosses out three more. I'd really prefer to not be on anything, or just take all of them at once, but since neither of those seem like options he'd accept, I relent.

"Fine," I say, staring over his shoulder at a muted college football game, on a mounted TV in the corner, but not actually watching it.

"Hey," he waves a hand in front of my face. It's annoying as fuck, but he can always tell when I'm distracted.

"Sorry," I mumble, looking down to better acknowledge his plan. "You're the doctor."

He shakes his head, "I just don't like all this shit they put you on. How's your jaw?"

"My jaw's fine, Canyon," I tell him, again. "It hasn't really changed since the last time you asked. A few seconds ago."

Sighing at my apathy or obstinacy, or both, he mutters more medical jargon, and finally gets paged back to the ER. I wave him off, then put my head down and wait for Wolf.

Wolf arrives with the best news I've heard in what seems like a decade (the last good news I heard was _You're going to BedStuy. Faith is too._ and then it all went downhill from there). He says we're going downtown to check-in to rehab, and I'm actually happy about the prospect since it means I can get out of this fucking asylum.

"What day is it?" I ask Wolf as we leave.

"Thursday."

"I've only been here one night?"

He looks at his watch, "Eighteen hours."

* * *

**December 22, 2011  
**

Manhattan Hope sounds more like a counseling service for pregnant teenagers than it does a detox or rehab center. And it's new, just as Wolf promised. This is obvious because it smells faultlessly immaculate even in the absence of heavy chemical scents in the air. The walls are pale blue and everything else is white — the floors, the ceilings, the counters, everything — bright, unsullied, unblemished, blindingly-white. It almost feels like I should be squinting.

It seems busy as we head for an elevator and pass the outpatient area stocked with people waiting — coughing, twitching, talking, texting, and tapping their fingers. I glance at a few of them, trying to determine how bad their situation is to have led them here, but no one is that easy to read. Besides, I'm the one going upstairs, they're the ones who will be walking out in a few hours, to return to their lives, leaving treatment here just a distant appointment in the back of their mind.

The inside of the elevator is unnecessarily modern, and the air seems to thicken with tension once we're both in and the doors shut in front of us. It's like it's daring one of us to speak, daring us to say something, but neither one of us does, because honestly, what words would be appropriate right now? We don't want to say anything to doubt this place's effectiveness, but we don't want to get our hopes up either; we don't want to start planning ahead with the assumption that everything will be fine in ninety days. Speaking of which, those ninety days started sounding increasingly more like a lifetime during the ride from the hospital. I'd spent the duration of the drive thinking about the situation at hand; weighing the direness of it all as Wolf navigated us through busy midtown traffic. We don't venture over here very often, if ever. I'm content in Brooklyn; no longer fooled by BedStuy's tame counterparts. The 7-9 is rough, but it's home. Manhattan, these days, is just a fucking headache.

_Do you ever think of going to the 5-5? _Wolf had asked. I guess he was just trying to make me less nervous about the prospect of entering rehab for the umpteenth time. That or he was trying to make himself less nervous, but either way, it wasn't working.

_To what, sightsee?_ I haven't had a reason to go to the Upper East Side in years. In fact, I think the last time was when I cleaned out my locker and got reassigned.

He'd just shrugged. _I don't know. It's just weird. Sometimes I think it's like if I put two more years in here and then got sent someplace else. I can't really picture it._

_Well, _I'd said, _just don't give a drug lord with a murder rap a free phone call to the outside, and we'll all be able to stay put._

There's a sign on the wall on the third floor that has me scared to death, wishing I could flee for the exits and just go back home; back to denying how in need of help I am. It figures that every weekday visiting hour falls directly at the beginning of Wolf's shift.

So far this place has given me no indication that it's all that different from a medium-security prison. There's just no way I'll survive with this kind of isolation. I'm used to Wolf being here, for more than just a regulated hour or two a week. I'm used to going to work with him in the afternoon, riding around with him all shift, and going home with him at night. So maybe there's some unwritten rule that would say we should be sick of each other or that some time apart might do us good, but the truth is we're not, and even if we were, ninety days is excessive.

I show the preposterous sign to Wolf, who just nods solemnly after signing in and retrieving paperwork from a nurse. When we sit down to wait in contiguous chairs, it becomes awkwardly evident that we've still said _nothing_ since entering the building. It's like he's biting his tongue, putting off any words at all until I've been safely admitted and there's an assumedly less chance of me backing out of this.

He hands me the clipboard. "You have to fill it out," he says, shrugging stoically.

I nod. I take forever just to uncap the pen, hoping to stall, hoping to keep him here as long as I can.

"This doesn't really look like a detox center," I say, but I don't need to look around at the modern walls, or the streamlined counters, or the immaculate floors to be reminded.

"It's 2011. When's the last time you were in one?"

"Uh, 2010?"

He smiles a little and I think this might be closest we've come to making light of the situation in years. I sigh and start diligently filling out the paperwork; I decide that the sooner I finish and get this thing started, the sooner it will be over with and the sooner I can leave. I don't explain my logic out loud though, because I figure it will sound too practical and I don't want him to get his hopes up when I'm already pretty certain this is just another attempt — at fixing the unfixable — to end up in the failure books. Besides, on the way here, Wolf made it all sound entirely too easy — and not just easy, but as if there's real hope for me this time. I mean, if I'd been the one talking to someone who was partially dead and partially a brick wall, I don't think I'd sound so certain of their recovery potential. Yet he really sounded like he thinks after ninety days in rehab he'll have his old partner back — whoever that was to begin with. Honestly, it's been too long to remember who I was before the pain and alcohol and self-destruction took over. And I know that he means the person I was, or am when I'm sober for half a day, or remotely optimistic for a couple, but still, I concede that those minor moments of respite in between this six-and-a-half year suicidal bender I've been on really just don't count for much anymore. And after last night, I'm not so sure I have a single redeeming quality left in me.

"That place was ancient," he continues, waving his hand dismissively. "I think most places look more like this now."

I raise my eyebrows, "More like someone told a construction company to combine a jail and a mental hospital?"

He smiles again. This comforts me, even if only for a fleeting second or two, and I begin to near the end of the seemingly endless questions regarding symptoms and thoughts and habits, and other sneakily worded inquiries to determine just how far from normalcy I've fallen (it's not like he has to wait while I take six years to complete the interrogation, but he does, and I don't tell him to leave).

My situation will probably seem so bad to the staff, based on my answers, that they'll probably wonder how it ever even reached this point. I mean, how did I just float in and out of triage bays for six years all while evading or passing department psych evals and somehow maintaining my job? I'm not going to say it's been easy, I'll just say that things are a lot easier to get away with when you're actually living them day-to-day. If anyone were to look back now, my track record would be riddled with all sorts of red flags. But nobody ever looks at the big picture. Every incident is isolated. I have a reason for everything. And the department needs manpower, can't afford to lose uniforms, and doesn't have enough time to go around weeding out the cops that have been turned crazy by the job itself. That would be bad press anyway, and if there's anything the NYPD is all about, it's avoiding lawsuits.

The point is, for the people who have any power over my livelihood, like the lieutenant, or the department's very own shrink (who, for the record, I'm convinced dug her credentials out of a dumpster off Nostrand), I maintain an unflinching poker face, plausible sanity, and just enough decent eyesight to pass requals every year. In fact, if it weren't so depressing underneath, I'd be fairly _im_pressed with my ability to appear okay.

I'm not skeptical of this place for no reason. It's just that I've sat through the counseling, I've taken the pills, I've done the whole tragic dance before, and so this place, just like so many other places and forms of treatment like AlAnon, psychiatry, therapy, group therapy, department therapy, and anti-depressants – is really nothing spectacularly new. Wolf has tried to drag me to detox centers upstate at least once a year. He's also tried countless times to get me to dry out just by throwing away anything remotely alcoholic and locking me and him in his apartment for a couple days. Sometimes I made it through those days, vomiting and sweating and cursing him out and telling him how much I hated him, and then within the following week I was back to the bottom of another bottle. Other times I could never even get past the vomiting stage before Wolf got worried he was somehow going to kill me since he wasn't a professional and would eventually give me liquor just so I'd stop being so violently ill, and then he'd spend the following week feeling guilty for not sticking it out. Either way, the outcome was never good or there never was much of one. Hell, one day he told me I was going to AA – just like that, announced it as casually and as certainly as if we were going to work. I laughed in his face because we'd played that game before and got as far as the front door before I lost my will and left. But he dragged me to another meeting by pulling what I call the Amber Card. It was cruel and vindictive, but he was desperate, and it worked. The Amber card was when he said, "If you love Amber, you'll go to AA…again" or "If you love Amber, you'll go to therapy…again". It pissed me off but it got to me, and I went to three sessions of AA and I sat there, and as promised he sat beside me, and we listened to stories about how alcoholism had torn apart families and sabotaged careers and every other horror story, until eventually I stopped going and he stopped making me. I figured it was because it depressed him just as much, which all seemed rather counterintuitive, given the situation. The therapy bit lasted a few weeks at a time, every few months, and often involved playing the Amber Card, but ultimately it didn't work, and I seemed to be running out of options, and Wolf didn't know what else to do with me. He was understandably frustrated by the fact that him or Amber's mere existence wasn't enough to keep me from picking up the bottle. But the truth is, I never wanted to live without either of them; I just wanted to die. I guess it didn't always occur to me that those two things are mutually exclusive.

"You're gonna be able to do this," he tells me, after I've turned in the paperwork so I can be turned into a file which will then become a case. And when he finally leaves, all that I can read on his face seems to be an exasperated combination of hope and doubt.

His words become about as reassuring as the sensation that the ground is falling out from under me.

* * *

**Four days later  
December 26, 2011**

"How am I supposed to start at the beginning?" I ask Micah, overwhelmed and at a loss. I'm sitting in his office, a place I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of. My schedule involves a _lot_ of therapy. Have to say, I didn't figure I'd be spending the day after Christmas in a detox center in midtown Manhattan, but as Sully would declare, we all have our crosses.

"I mean, almost seven years. Do you know how much fucking shit has happened in _seven_ years?"

If there's anything I'm infamous for, it's refusing to cooperate with shrinks. Therapists, department psychiatrists, white coats at St. Mary's — they all have one thing in common: I never tell them a damn thing. Well, in some instances I would cave and say just enough to get me out of there, but mostly I kept my mouth shut; ran out the fifty-minutes in painstaking silence. The truth was that I had no idea where to begin; I still don't. I'm still not sure how things got so bad, and I'm still not even exactly sure _why._

From what I've learned about Micah — who isn't a shrink but might as well be, since he's playing one for my recovery — he seems like a decent person (though I'll admit that it's harder to hate someone once they sort of have your life in their hands). He's been infinitely patient with me and my hesitance when it comes to talking about everything. He was impossibly calm in the face of me-almost-dying during detox. Speaking of detox, it was absolute hell. To say that I survived would be charitable, if only because of how close I came to almost not. I thought that from all those failed home-detox sessions Wolf put me through in the past — when he decided to play interventionist before freaking out when all the side effects manifested and likely deciding me dying by my own hand was less horrible than me dying from his non-existent knowledge on rehabbing chronic alcoholics — had been enough to give me some idea of what I was in for. But they weren't even close. There's a big difference between having someone deprive you of alcohol for twelve or sixteen hours. It's a whole other story to pass that twenty-four hour mark, when you haven't gone a day without unimaginable amounts of liquor in close to seven years. And unlike Wolf, this place didn't give in and hand me a bottle when I shouted or screamed; it never looked at me with foundering willpower when I cried or begged; it just did its job. This left me to see people who weren't there, to hear voices that weren't actually speaking, and suffer unbearable DTs. According to Micah, I even seized twice and had to be trached, but that's one thing my mind has spared me the memory of. Finally hour thirty passed, and the hallucinations faded, and the DTs faded, and eventually by hour forty-eight, all the alcohol in my system was officially gone. Now the only trick is to keep me from putting it back in.

"I know it's a lot," he replies. "But you don't have to cover it all today. You have three months here." Micah pushes my chart over a little. Every now and then he jots something down, but he doesn't seem to really be taking notes.

"Oh, I know, I'm a charity case," I say. I really didn't want to be reminded of that, or of the fact that I'm supposed to be here for three months. I would have signed myself out a million times during the two days of hell that they called detox, if I had been well enough just to walk.

"Is that what you think?" Micah asks, raising his eyebrow a little. He seems to keep this whole low-key interest thing going pretty well. So far he's exactly as Wolf described him, and so far, an antithesis of me, which makes it even more ironic that Wolf could get along with someone like him and then someone like me — a concept that put cracks in my original theory that people are incapable of changing. I'm still interested in how him and Wolf were ever friends to begin with thirteen years ago — they really have no similarities, aside from the fact that saving me from myself seems to be one of their priorities, for whatever reason. I realize people might wonder the exact thing about me and Wolf, but we're different — six and a half years ago the lieutenant tossed in a squad car together and we pretty much didn't have a choice in the matter. At least we dug up skeletons in each other's past that we could actually relate to. From everything Wolf's told me, he was a cautious, study-hard eighteen year old, walking on eggshells around USC's campus between visits from his father. And yet he managed to meet Micah Brighton, a do-gooder med student from a family that actually gave a shit about his existence, in case that's not already evident by the fact that his middle name is Brighton. I guess I just feel like I'm still missing a huge piece of the puzzle.

"Come on," I say, explaining the logic of my theory. "I spend a night upstairs, St. Mary's, and then end up here?"

"Wolf did come to me and I did tweak the schedule a little," he admits. "But Ryan paid everything."

"That's impossible," I declare, confused. "He doesn't have this kind of money. Trust me. I don't get paid much more than him. What we don't pay in rent goes straight to NYU for Amber."

Micah shrugs, "Look, I don't know how he paid for it, I'm just telling you he definitely did. Even if I wanted to sneak you in pro-bono or something, I couldn't have."

I sit there for a few seconds, processing, before finally getting annoyed. "What's the point of this?"

"Of talking?" he asks. "Not much if you're not doing any."

"No," I shake my head. "I mean, this whole thing. You got me clean, wasn't that the goal?"

"Being sober for a couple days is progress but not groundbreaking for you, according to Ryan anyway. If you left now how long would you last? A day? An hour? One block to the nearest store?"

"What the fuck do you want me to say then?" I surrender. I don't usually have to deal with life sober, and so far it's just as crappy as I vaguely recall it to be. "I mean, I don't _know_ why this happened. I don't_ have_ any answers. If I did, I wouldn't be here."

Micah looks perplexed by me for the first time, "You can't think of a single incident that made you want to drink?"

"Of course I can," I confess with a bitter laugh. "But ask anyone on the force. A dead kid, a day full of domestics, rookies, pay cuts, transfers; that shit would make Muslims want to down absinthe."

"Okay," he concedes. He seems to unintentionally permeate normalcy which makes me feel inferior while also willing it to be contagious. "But let me rephrase: You can't think of a single incident that made you decide to drink until you blacked out and not care if you didn't wake up again?"

I close my mouth tightly, like it might start talking without my consent. "No," I tell him. "No, not really."

* * *

_**March 2007**_

_Wolf isn't quite twenty-seven. We're parked on the corner of Fulton, drinking coffee and running out our 10-63 while I smoke and he intermittently slams his fist on the steering wheel. At some point I decide to intervene._

"_What's the record?" I ask him, after grabbing his wrist mid-assault and not letting go until he shakes his head and silently promises to stop. "How long since you last slept, Ryan?"_

"_Three days," he sighs, staring out the window. "Three fucking days."_

_It's common knowledge by now, at least to me and Royal and Faith, that Wolf didn't exactly grow up in the Brady Bunch. His parents were only sixteen when he was born and his mother died in childbirth, which left him to be raised by a teenager with a bad temper who would eventually be, ironically enough, more preoccupied with getting into Clemson med school than with being a parent. So, sleep deprivation and random outbursts of violence aren't exactly the best way to cope with nightmares, especially for a cop, but I sure as hell don't know what to recommend to get them to stop. I somehow managed to grow out of mine, at the less-than-tender age of thirty, but it wasn't easy and I have a feeling Wolf doesn't exactly want to wait four more years for a decent night's sleep. I feel completely helpless to him. _

_"They're going to stop," I tell him, and immediately feel bad because despite his pain, he believes me. And I'm not sure if it's true._

"_Panthers are so screwed tonight," I announce confidently, collapsing in worn booth. I'm hungry for a change and hope that our radios remain quiet. Sully used to say that any day that begins with a domestic is a bad day, and the fact that me and Wolf came straight from roll call to Amber's diner in Domestic Central isn't promising. However, in almost fifteen years I've seen crappy days evolve from just about every type of call and I think I even once triumphantly explained Sul's failing theory to him in this very diner at some point._

_Wolf scowls from across the table, pretending to scan a menu as if his order has spontaneously changed for the first time in two years. "We'll see," he says and then he rests his hands down, his knuckles all purple and blue. _

_In a rare act of compassion, or mercy, Faith joins me in my car one night after tapping lightly on the window. I suppose it could be because I am, after all, parked outside of her apartment, but I decide to go with the more appealing idea that she doesn't quite have Miller tunnel vision (yet) and has noticed me in all of my misery._

"_I just don't know what to do," I say, honestly, after a few minutes of discussing Wolf. She tells me he shouldn't be on the street if he literally goes days on end without sleeping, or if he seems to lack control over what he beats up randomly, but I tell her pointedly that there's probably a good reason every single one of us shouldn't be on the street, if someone looked close enough. _

"_Just be careful," she says finally, implying the obvious. That between my eyesight and Wolf's temper, sending the two of us out into BedStuy every night is a huge liability waiting to get killed._


	10. Part 10: Loaded Questions

The Right Thing Part 10 — "Loaded Questions"

I've never felt like I'm good with this much dialogue, which as you might notice, is why I usually stick to descriptions and inner thoughts. So let me know what you think of this one, good or bad. Thanks everyone for reading and sticking with this even though I'm the slowest person in the world to update! :)

_

* * *

_

_ Don't think I don't think about it  
Don't think it don't get to me  
Between the work and the hurt and whiskey_

**Three years, six months ago  
July 17, 2008  
**

Me and Wolf sit across from each other at St. Mary's, trying to form words as we laugh, while med students prepare to suture and seem confused by the fact that _we_ seem unfazed by our injuries. I guess at first glance it wouldn't seem like we're patients or that a few hours ago we were stabbed by junkies while clearing out squatters in Bedford. How it all actually unfolded is now somewhat of a blur, but I can say they wound up worse than us.

"Did you hear the first one?" Wolf asks, trying hard to stay still. "He was like 'I HAVE A KNIFE!' And I was like…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I laugh, and we finish in unison, 'I HAVE A GUN, BITCH!'"

"You two need to start spacing out these hospital visits," a voice announces, interrupting our laughter. Canyon walks through the door, momentarily letting in a wave of noise before shutting it and sealing it out again. He's looking at me more than Wolf, for reasons I can only assume have something to do with my last visit here, which I don't think was a big deal and something I've already assured him and Wolf won't ever happen again. I'm not sure why they're so skeptical.

"Seriously," he continues. "I see enough cops come through here. I don't want you two to be the ones that I send to the morgue someday. Be careful out there."

We nod obediently.

"You guys have the whole department down here," Canyon says, trying to lighten the atmosphere that he's essentially killed with his solemnity and statistics. He nods toward the hallway. It's funny, really, that there's dozens of cops rallied out in the lobby while the two of us were hardly yellow-tagged and are now being stitched up by a couple of kids.

"The whole department minus one," Wolf says sarcastically, staring at me. Canyon just looks confused and walks to the door.

"I'm serious," he says, pointing, and then leaves.

"I saw her out there, Ryan," I mutter, though I'm not sure if I'm telling the truth or not.

"People see what they want to see, Bosco," he explains, shaking his head. "I used to see Kerry Collins throwing a fifty-yard pass and winning the Superbowl, but really I was just getting the hell beat out of me by my dad and at the end of the day, Collins could only throw picks."

I look at him for a few seconds. Maybe he's right. I glance over at the door. It doesn't open.

* * *

**Present Day  
December 30, 2011**

The first time I sat down with Micah, I said next to nothing, just sat, eyes glazed, mind still-not-quite-grasping the concept of alcohol withdrawal. And not the physical pain that went along with detox, but the relentless, persistent need to drink just to numb the emotional agony that remains and is now, without those numbing effects of liquor, even more raw and impossible to confront. But eventually I have to talk — I have to talk or else three months here is going to feel like eternity.

I get annoyed with all the ominous medical talk, after listening to him go on about how chronic my state was and how dangerous my detox had been. Besides, if I wanted a lecture on all of that, I had Canyon on speed dial. I knew he was just reminding me that the battle I'd started fighting wasn't going to be easy, but frankly I already knew and I didn't need a reminder of just how much I'd fucked up. I told him I had one of those every morning I woke up away from home. I don't know, maybe this was just some kind of reverse psychology thing he did in order to get me to actually change the subject to something relevant. In which case, he's more like Wolf than I thought.

"So," Micah says, running a pencil through his hair. It's lighter than Wolf's and dark than mine, he's older than Wolf and younger than me, and his eyes are almost a strange dark combination of brown and blue. It's almost like someone combined the two of us and removed any respective personality flaws. "Your brother is murdered, your mom almost dies, you get shot, you have a falling out with your ex-partner, the only precinct house you'd been working out of since 1992 is attacked, you get transferred to the most crime ridden area of Brooklyn, get assigned a new partner, your ex-partner remarries, you and Ryan essentially take in an orphaned teenager, the two of you get stabbed…" he looks at me expectantly, as if I was supposed to interrupt. "Sounds like a rough seven years, yet you don't think any of that has anything to do with any of this?"

"Look," I start, not exactly sure how to respond after being confronted with all the crap that's happened. "My mom is fine. I'd been shot before, I mean, go back a few more years, obviously you're gonna find stuff. And I wasn't the only one to get transferred to BedStuy. Amber wasn't a bad thing and when we got stabbed it wasn't a big deal…"

"It's hard to know what was a big deal," he says. "Just because you can think of ways to mitigate those things, it doesn't mean it didn't stress you out."

"Why make it a problem if it wasn't?" I ask, tossing my hands up a little.

"Fine," he clears his throat. "So assuming nothing you just justified contributed in any way, then we're left with your brother, Ryan, and Faith."

I sigh, "What about them?"

Micah doesn't seem deterred by my resistance, "You tell me," he says simply.

I wring my hands in frustration, "It's not like I know what the problem is and just won't tell you," I explain, and it's the truth. I really _don't_ know what incident or combination of incidents has led me to feel how I feel, I just know that something has.

"I'll tell you what I think," he says, leaning forward. "I think you've had one traumatic thing after another happen, no time to recover from any of them, you spent three years trying to help Ryan cope with problems you already had to deal with yourself and the rest of your energy went to Amber and your job."

"That's a good theory," I nod. "But other people have jobs and kids and partners and problems and they don't all turn to this at the first sign of trouble."

Micah shrugs, "You're not 'other people'."

I stare past him for a few minutes before sighing and giving in, "It's a long story," I warn. But I have a feeling it isn't going to get me out of answering.

"I have time," he shrugs, as expected.

"Why _are_ you spending so much time on me?" I ask. "You don't owe me anything, you don't owe Wolf anything. Hell, if anything, he makes it sound like he owes _you_."

I've been waiting for Micah to get pissed off, to tell me to leave, to stop wasting his time, to come back when I decide to make it remotely evident that I actually want his help, something along the lines of the shrink Sul sent me to back when. But he never does. Instead he just silently evades my question and continues.

"Your brother," he starts. "You still think of him?"

"Of course," I shake my head when I realize he isn't going to tell me why he feels like he has to spend several hours a day trying to get me to do more than argue about why I'm here in the first place.

"Alive?" he questions.

I clench my jaw and stand up, "I missed the part where you thought it would be a good idea to ignore aggravated battery and a history of child abuse."

Micah seems hardly fazed by my words and instead just starts writing calmly on his legal pad. It strikes me as almost inhuman the way he remains completely composed. Even Wolf doesn't have this much patience with me. Then again, it's not Micah Stamford's past that we're digging up. Yet.

"What are you writing?" I nearly snap, watching him finish and look up.

He hesitates and then reads, "_Immediately deflects when confronted with past trauma_," and I'm a little surprised because I didn't think he was actually going to tell me. I sit back down and say nothing until the silence becomes deafening and I can't take it anymore.

"Mikey…that was over seven years ago," I explain, a little less hostile than before.

"It doesn't seem like you had a chance to deal with it," he observes. "Do you remember when it actually hit you? Think."

"I didn't sleep well for the whole year after Mikey was killed," I admit quietly. "I'd just lay there seeing him. And then, when I got sent to the 7-9, I felt like I left something at the 5-5. I don't even know what, just this feeling that I had unfinished business there, when I didn't, not really. I got pre-occupied with Faith and with Wolf, and then I was sitting at my mom's bar one night and I started thinking of him again, and I realized that if I drank just enough, it all went away — his cut up body, being transferred, Faith not speaking to me, Wolf's childhood — it all went away. If I just drank enough."

"How much was enough?" Micah asks, studying me.

I shrug, "At first? A few beers, a few shots."

"And later?"

"It got harder to forget everything. I'd just drink more. A few more beers, a few more shots. A six pack, a twelve pack, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of Jack," I explain, feeling nervous to be revealing this much about myself. "Eventually nothing really went away anymore. I just kept drinking to numb myself out. To make it suck a little less."

Micah listens intently and nods. Finally he says, "Do you know when you first ended up in the ER because of it?"

I shake my head. I do remember the night, I just don't remember the date.

"It was June 16, 2008," he announces, noticing my confused expression. "I have all of your medical records." Of course he does. "I find it a little hard to believe that all of this stems from a misunderstanding with your ex-partner."

"Faith?" I'd call the the whole I-asked-you-to-shoot-for-me-and-instead-you-went-to-Swersky thing a little more than an understanding, but, I don't argue.

He shrugs and it's the first time he hasn't looked completely confident in his theory, "I think she's a big part of it, I just don't think she's all of it. Wolf didn't speak too highly of her."

I scoff, unsurprised, "Of course he didn't. He thinks she didn't help me enough."

"Well, Wolf is the one who brought you here," Micah reminds me. "But you think she did? Help you, I mean. Enough?"

"I don't think it was her job to help me."

"It's not Wolf's either."

"No," I agree. "I've been telling him that for years. But he's a fucking altruist."

He tilts his head, some kind of doctor thing I've decided, since Canyon does it too. "You seem hesitant to place any blame on her at all. You're not angry?"

_Fuck_. "Of course I'm angry. I'm fucking pissed!"

"But you haven't told her…" Of course I haven't told her. It's been a little difficult to strike up conversation over yellow crime scene tape the past six years.

"If you're really not that angry and you really don't blame her, then fine. Good. But if you do, it seems like you feel like you still have to defend her."

"I don't defend…" I trail off, getting flustered. Didn't I tell him I was pissed?

"You've defended her thirteen times since I met you," he says, tapping his papers. "I wrote them down and—"

"I hit her," I mumble, interrupting him. He looks up sharply.

"You hit her?"

I run my hands over my face and through my hair in sheer frustration. I regret saying it. I nod and regret confirming it. I wanted to never say it and hope that somehow it never happened. But it did. Micah writes some more. I can hear nothing but his pen, scribbling away, and the silence just makes it so much easier to hear the guilt. And knowing that there's no way to quiet it — no way to drown it away with alcohol — just makes it that much worse. So I sit feeling like I've just revealed some horrible secret that I never meant to keep in the first place. Micah seems to realize that it's probably all he's getting out of me today.

"I can tell you about Ryan, if you want," he says softly. I push away the lump in my throat and nod. I'm grateful for a chance to change the subject, even if my mind insists on replaying that night in fast-forward, over and over again, even if for several seconds I continue to hear that sickening sound of knuckles meeting jawbone and bright red blood.

I focus on Micah until I can actually hear him again.

* * *

_Don't think I don't wonder about  
What could've been, should've been all worked out  
_

**Six years, seven months ago  
May 9, 2005**

_The locker room at the 7-9 isn't much different from the one at the 5-5, and as I find mine and begin filling it, I'm not sure if the thought comforts or depresses me. _

"_Hi," a voice interrupts me mid- half-ass folding of my blues. I would hang them, but it seems like too much effort, honestly. Hopefully I won't need them soon anyway. I turn around a face the voice — a kid I noticed several minutes ago when I walked in, out of my peripheral vision, but was too anti-social to acknowledge. The idea of starting over here is still looming ahead of me and so far it hardly seems worth the trouble. What if I get transferred again in thirteen years? Would I be supposed to start over again at forty-five? I've watched so much fall apart, I can't help but walk around thinking, 'why bother?'_

"_Ryan Wolf," the kid says, outstretching his hand. I look at him a little suspiciously before shaking it. He can't be more than twenty-four or –five. This just reinforces my silent hope that I don't get a partner. I don't want one. I don't want to babysit some kid for twelve hours. Do or Die, whatever the fuck they call this place, I can do it alone._

"_Hi," I say, but I don't tell him my name. Apparently I'm unfriendly enough to make him uncomfortable enough to retreat. I feel a little bad, but then decide, no, not really. I transform quickly from civilian clothes to my uniform and then wander downstairs in search of roll call._

_The roll call room is about half the size of the 5-5's, but has about twice the officers crammed into it. All of the school-like desks are full, everyone else is leaning against them or, like me, is left to stand by the entrance while the lieutenant talks._

_My eyesight hasn't gotten any better since the Monroe shooting, in fact, it's only deteriorating. In spite of this, I spot Faith quickly. She's standing between the lieutenant and John Miller, who I met briefly before we all got reassigned. Something about him bothers me, but then again, something usually bothers me about most people._

"_Major Cases has a sketch of the Heights Killer and an updated M.O.," the lieutenant says. He seems harmless enough, almost sedated or something. He motions for Miller to speak, but Miller turns to Faith instead. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs and shakes her head, then finally stands up. She's saying something about the case but the rest of her words are inaudible to me, as I zone out, and all I see are her lips moving and Miller hovering in the background like a vulture._

_The lieutenant takes over again after Faith finishes, and he announces something about improved line of duty casualty statistics, as if BedStuy's patrols haven't been dropping like flies for five years. Finally he gives the okay for everyone to leave, but not before telling me to stay. He stops the kid — was it Wolf? I wasn't listening — on the way out and tells him to wait in the hall, and I start to get suspicious._

"_Kid's been begging to get away from his TO for four years," the lieutenant explains, motioning out of a window into the hall where Wolf stands, almost in anticipation. He must notice my 'I'm so screwed' expression because he immediately continues, "We have more rookies than TO's right now, more 10-13's in a month than the 81__st__ has in six, and this kid is as close to a vet as you're gonna get. You're comin' here from a tame part of the City. If I were you, Boscorelli, I'd take him and run."_

_I sigh quietly to myself and then nod, "Yes, sir."_

**_.......  
_**

**May 12, 2005**

_Day three in BedStuy is no different, so far, from the first two. I've managed to establish verbal communication with my twenty-five year old partner, but am having no success doing the same with Faith. If anything, we pass each other on the stairs and occasionally one of us says something generic like, 'Hey'. _

_I'm still somewhat haunted by the look on Wolf's face the night I mentioned his father. Honestly, I'm not sure why it's stuck with me as much as it has, maybe because it seemed so familiar, like I'd seen it before, except in the mirror. I'm heading out of the locker room when I make a right instead of a left. I stop, remind myself this isn't the 5-5 and turn around. I nearly run into another uniform, who moves over and apologizes._

"_You're the transplant, right?" the man asks. He has dark hair and looks like he's probably eight or ten years older than me._

"_Yeah," I reply, and I shake his hand and tell him my name. I can't help it if I find it easier to take other cops more seriously if they were born before the eighties. _

"_Vandt," he says. "I hear Lieu gave you the Wolf cub. I was his T.O. Anyway, just wanted to say good luck, the kid's a wreck."_

_With that, the man pats my shoulder and walks off, leaving me wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into here at the 7-9._

_.............  
_

**May 24, 2005**

_I didn't expect to hit it off with anyone at 7-9, not ever, so when I find myself standing outside, smoking with Mason Royal after two weeks, I'm officially relieved. For the record though, I'm still confused with my new surroundings even if I'm told I'm adapting well, and still angered by Faith's increasing ability to make phasing me out of her life look like some kind of art. She was the one who went to Swersky. If anything, I should still be pissed at her._

"_How long have you been on?" I ask Royal, through a thin veil of smoke._

"_Fourteen years," he says. "You?"_

_I cough, "Thirteen. Well, almost."_

_Me and Royal get along well. He's my age and he's bitter and jaded and cynical and always fighting over the phone with his wife and he smokes like a chimney which is very convenient for me because it makes sure my new habit is never deprived. We seem to agree on most things — the law, the job, politics, religion or lack thereof, etcetera. _

"_How's your partner?" he asks, catching me off guard. I stop, confused for second, wondering why he would care about Faith, since he doesn't really know her. Then I realize he's talking about Wolf, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to the idea of referring to him as my partner._

"_Fine I guess," I tell him. "Whatever. I don't know why people seem to think he isn't. His T.O. stopped me the other week, said good luck because he's crazy or something. What don't I know about this kid?"_

"_I don't know," Royal shrugs. His cigarette fizzles out and distracts him, "Fuck, where's the lighter? Anyway, Wolf's been here four years, I've rode with him what, maybe three times? So I don't really know. Mostly he was fine, good really, but then he'd get weird, like, he'd freeze. Never any way that he couldn't back me up, but where he'd be sitting there and then he'd just lose it, like he was having a flashback or something. So, he'd go back to Vandt and it seemed like the longer he was with him, well then the next time I rode with him he was worse."_

_I study Royal's face for answers, but he seems genuinely confused by Wolf and now, since he's not his partner, not that concerned either._

"_Lieu said Wolf had been wanting a new partner for awhile. I think it's why I got him."_

"_For awhile?" Royal laughs, exhaling. "No, Wolf's been _begging_ for a new partner every day for _four_ years. Even asked to go solo after his probation year was up."_

"_Solo? That would've been a death wish out here back then, right? Was Vandt that bad?" _

"_Sure. That's the part I don't get," Royal shrugs. "Vandt isn't bad. Guess he can have a temper, but who wouldn't after two decades? I've been partnered with him a lot over the years, never had a problem with the guy."_

_I take a long drag. I'm officially confused. So far Wolf has done nothing obvious to indicate he's as much of a liability as Vandt made him sound like._

"_So," Royal speaks up again after a few seconds of silence, his eyes curious. "What's the deal with you and the detective?"_

_.............._

_..............  
_

_It isn't until about a month into riding with Wolf, that I get my first look at the side of him that until now has only been alluded to. It's exactly like Royal described, a sort of flashback that left him either freaking out or frozen in the passenger seat. I recognized it as well as I'd recognized the look on his face the first day I met him. Now it's all starting to get to me. Nothing's really supposed to do that anymore._

"_Me and Royal are getting drinks," I tell him as we all prepare to leave the locker room._

"_I have to get Amber," he says, as if God himself has placed the responsibility of the girl's wellbeing on him._

_I hesitate, noticing the perpetually dead look in his eyes. "I'll come," I announce, to his surprise. I figure he probably hasn't gotten the impression I do anything but tolerate him for the sake of my job. _

"_Really?"_

_I nod. "Sure."_

_................._

_................._

"_Look, Wolf," I say, on an unusually quiet Thursday. "You gonna tell me what's going on? What happened with Vandt? Why you were so desperate to get away from him?"_

_He runs a distressed hand through his hair for what might be the tenth time today. This isn't the first time I've asked him about Vandt, or why the subject seems to evoke panic attacks, it's just the first time he looks like he might actually tell me._

_Finally, after a few painstaking minutes, he mutters, "Reminds me of my Dad."_

"_What?" I ask, thinking I didn't hear him right. _

"_He reminds me of my dad," Wolf repeats, motioning with his hands. "He looks like him, he talks like him, he yelled like him, I could never do anything right. And I thought that coming here four years ago was my ticket away from it all and then the academy sends me here and I walk in and get Vandt. Every time I got in the car with him, I heard my dad saying, 'You'll never entirely get away' and he was right. It just got worse after that."_

"_Jesus," I mumble. "Wolf, if you told Lieu the truth, they would've had to put you with someone else."_

"_What?" he looks confused. _

"_If you'd gone to the lieutenant and told them what you just told me," I shake my head. "Ryan, they would've split you up." _

"_I did tell him," Wolf insists. "Not at first. I mean, the first day I didn't just walk up and say, 'Hey, Lieu, you mind changing the entire schedule to put me with someone else because I'm kind of damaged goods and see my dad in just about anyone fifteen years older than me'…but eventually, when I couldn't take it anymore, yeah, I told him."_

"_And he didn't do anything?" I ask, somewhat appalled. _

_Wolf nods sadly, "No. Not sure he believed me at first. I don't know what Vandt was telling him, that I was just insane or something. But, no, he told me I was lucky have to my FTO out on these streets and that if I went out in a one man car I'd end up dead and that would be too much paperwork for him to deal with. Said I should suck it up or take my problems to the department shrink."_

"_And did you?"_

"_What, go to the shrink?" he scoffs. "No."_

_We fall silent for a minute, and then I sigh, "You gotta tell me what happened to you eventually, Wolf."_

_.................._

_.................._

**July 11, 2005**

_It's Monday, I'm sitting outside the precinct on cement ste__ps smoking, ignoring the scorching heat as it beats down on my uniform. In front of me, Royal pulls up in his squad car, gets out and slams the door._

"_Fucking slacker!" he shouts. _

"_Bite me, Royal."_

_He laughs and then looks over me and nods, "One o'clock," he says._

_I turn around just enough to see Faith emerging from the door. She walks toward me and sits down, something I find slightly unusual since our communication has been fizzling down to daily platitudes for several months now. It's not that we can't or don't get along, it's just that it's getting harder and harder to do. _

"_Aren't you hot out here?" she asks, looking disgusted. _

_I just shrug, "Waiting for Wolf."_

_She nods, "How is he anyway? Has he told you anything?"_

_I take a long drag, "About Vandt, yeah. Can't get anything else out of the kid though."_

_Faith looks at me sympathetically, "He'll come around, he trusts you." _

"_Well, whatever," I mutter. "How's, um, Miller?"_

"_He's…okay, I guess, why?"_

"_So you're sleeping with him?"_

_Cue her standing up sharply and going back inside. I'm not sure what makes me sabotage our already-infrequent conversations, but I look down and feel like shit. Royal walks over and shakes his head. _

"_Fuck. That went well, Bosco." He takes her place beside me and motions for me to light his cigarette. "I thought you were trying to fix things, not fuck them up. You know what? I don't think this is really about, you know, your sight or that, uh, shooting anymore."_

"_No kidding?" _

"_Yeah," he continues. "I think, I don't know. It's jealousy or something."_

"_You know Miller better than me," I remind. "You're saying he's not a jerk? I should want her to be fucking him?"_

_Royal exhales, "No, he is a fucking jerk but I just think—…"_

"_Whatever you think," I start, between coughs, "I don't care. I have a sixteen year old and twenty-five year old psych-major drop out giving me enough advice already. So you can take your opinions and your suggestions and shove them up your ass, Royal. Or maybe everyone could just take their own advice, then Amber wouldn't be half an orphan, Ryan wouldn't be so fucked up, and you wouldn't be on the verge of a divorce every other day!" I stand up and toss my cigarette down as a fitting finale to my rant, and announce I'm going inside to find Wolf before the sun literally roasts me. _

"_Make sure you check the locker room," he calls. "He likes to stand in there and stare at the fist-sized hole in the wall that Lieu made him spackle over last week."_


	11. Part 11: I Got South Carolina On My Mind

**The Right Thing Part 11 – "I've Got South Carolina On My Mind"**

Summary – It's time for Bosco to move on from MH and get back to work. So let's get the show on the road.

A/N – Sorry for the delay, I was railroaded by appendicitis last week! Sorry for the time gaps, I'm trying to get where I'm going and not drag this on for another five years. This is a short and bittersweet chapter that I wrote while on painkillers. As always, thank you for reading and for the kind reviews! :) ---Skye

.

* * *

.

**March 19, 2009**

.

_I've been coming-to in the ER with dried charcoal on my mouth more and more frequently. So now, if I'm not rushed to the ICU and I'm able to sit up, I just stare down at the floor in an effort to avert my eyes from Wolf, who is usually standing off to the side looking relieved that I'm awake, but still traumatized from whatever preceded it, as if I would be some kind of catastrophic loss. _

_Tonight isn't much different. Wolf hovers nearby while I stare at the site on my arm where until recently, an IV had been pumping electrolytes into my system, replacing all the fluids I'd dehydrated out of myself with alcohol. He spent several minutes talking in a hushed voice with Royal. There was a time when Royal would talk _to_ me after these incidents, but now I seem to be irrational and therefore am only talked about. I might have cared more a few weeks ago. __Right now a__**ll **__I can focus on is how terrified I am of Wolf's judgment; even though somewhere inside me I know logically that he has none. He never has. That's why he's still here. But, when I do the things I do, and I wake up this way — 'Just barely,' according to Canyon — it's hard to believe that._

_Finally, in what might be the biggest act of courage in our whole fucked up relationship, he speaks. "You think I'm mad," he says, more of a statement than a question. Mad? No, I don't think he's mad. I think he's fucking pissed. I think he hates me. I think he contemplates requesting a new partner, or hell, requesting a transfer. But instead of admitting all that, I just breathe a cautious, shaky, "Yes." _

"_Well. I'm not." I look up at him for the first time since I sat up. He's genuine. I'll never know why, but he is. And suddenly the weight of the situation hits me, lands squarely on my shoulders, pulling me down, driving me to tears. I like what I feel when I'm so drunk I'm blacking out — nothing at all. But when I'm awake and sober, I feel everything. All the pain from every problem is present. And I can't pretend it doesn't hurt anymore. _

_Still, I scoff, "You're a good liar."_

"_There's a difference between being mad and being scared."_

_

* * *

_

.

.

**January 2012**

.

I was pretty sure that Wolf hadn't omitted that particular night from everything he told Micah (it was, after all, the one final violent straw that sent me on this desperate mission for a chance at normalcy). But either he did, or Micah pretended not to know in order to make it seem as if me admitting to it was some kind of giant step toward my recovery. It's not all we've been working on for two weeks, but it's always somewhere in the sessions. Whether or not we've made any progress I can't say, but I do know that I feel a little less like the guilt might kill me each time he brings it up. He seems confident that I won't walk out of here and into a restraining order. I, however, feel like that would be a reasonable expectation, considering. In fact, if I could take one out against me on her behalf, I probably would.

The day I have enough of the talking, the explaining, the psychoanalyzing, the pills, the schedule, the therapy, and the shrinks — I decide to sign myself out. I've had more than I can take. But when I get to the front desk, no one will let me pick up a pen, let alone sign anything.

"Fine," I toss my hands up. I don't need a signature to be done with this place. But when I turn to the elevators, my path is blocked by concerned staff. I hear Micah behind me, and I'm not surprised. His timing is usually this impressive.

"Where are you going?" He asks, which might be the dumbest question he's proposed since I walked through the doors of this godforsaken prison. Where does he _think _I'm going? "You need to stay."

"Like hell I do!" I shout. "I'm getting the _fuck_ out of here!"

"Stay one more day," he suggests. His controlled response seems hardly proportionate to my desperate yelling. "You can always leave tomorrow. Just don't leave today."

Micah has this way of sounding so nonchalantly logical that it pretty much makes it impossible to beat him in any argument. In fact, somewhere along the line, I think I stopped trying.

"I can't do this anymore," I tell him, as I cave. "I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the people and the pills and these fucking lights, Micah. And the shrinks and the talking, all the damn talking. I'm so _fucking_ sick of talking!" My voice is strained but it's not really that loud, just despaired and confused. I want to wake up somewhere familiar, somewhere comfortable, somewhere less demanding. I want to see Wolf and Amber and I want to tell Faith _'I'm sorry'_ over and over and over again until it somehow regains the meaning it lost years ago. I want to go back to work, even if it means to whatever sub-par level of functioning I miserably operated at. I want to leave. Instead, I follow Micah away from the exits. I'm a distraught, walking setback in my own recovery.

Micah starts talking about him and Wolf, which is probably because I've made it crystal clear that I have no intention of talking myself for the rest of the day. Or maybe the rest of the week, or, fuck, maybe the rest of my stay here, assuming I don't try to leave again. Maybe he figures if he brings up something somewhat less overwhelming, something with a half-decent ending, I might not feel so horrible. Maybe he figures that focusing on something other than all of my terrible decisions over the past three-quarters of a decade might get me to reconsider my vow to never speak again. And maybe he thinks that Wolf is a topic that could pull me out of the dead, dejected daze I've found myself in, as I face the window, feeling trapped and homesick. In that sense, he's right. I've always known about Micah, ever since Wolf broke down about six months into our partnership, revealing everything he endured before 'getting the fucking hell out of South Carolina'. But I never knew the details, and I never had the nerve to ask.

"Ryan was really smart," he mentions, muttering something about college and the Dean's list, and I have to decide that none of it is all that groundbreaking. I mean, saying Wolf is smart is like saying I had a drinking problem.

"Look, I know you think I didn't really help him, but…" Micah shakes his head, trying to find words to build a defense as I look at him expectantly. "But I promise you I did. I helped him as much as he would let me."

"Is it true, that his dad showed up at school?" I ask cautiously, dismissing what sounds like a masked apology. I already know the answer, I'm just not sure about the specifics. I feel like I should know everything, yet I don't know if I want to hear it.

"Yes," he nods, solemn. "Two or three times a month. Sometimes every weekend. I didn't know at first, until it got really bad. That's when he called me."

"That was when you should've dragged him to the hospital, not practiced your running stitch," I say, somewhat harshly. Micah seems to expect my disapproval.

"I did, later on," he explains. "I didn't want to have to wait for it to get worse, but I couldn't convince him to go that night. How many times has Wolf tried to get you to go to the ER, and you refused? You can't make people do something they don't want. At least not overnight."

"That's different," I declare, annoyed.

"How?"

"Because," I shrug. "Me and Wolf, we're partners, we're equals. You and him were different. He looked up to you. You were older, you were almost a doctor. You should have forced him to get help the first time you even remotely suspected something was wrong."

I'm aware that I'm probably being unreasonable, that I'm placing too much blame on Micah for something that, when it comes down to it, wasn't necessarily his responsibility. I know that the majority of the damage was already done by the time they ever met.

"I think about Wolf all the time," Micah tells me, his voice quiet, almost regretful. "I didn't stop wondering if I could have done something else. But he got out. He _did_ get out. And eventually, I had to let it go."

"I know," I nod, my voice quaking a little. This topic is proving to make me feel worse than all of the other crap combined. "I just don't see how it got overlooked for twenty years. The schools, the hospitals…no one notices? No one says a fucking word?"

I'm not as confused as I sound. I'm disgusted, but not confused. Because me and Mikey lived through a period of time where no one — schools and hospitals included — noticed. Where no one said a fucking word.

He nods sadly, "I'm sure they noticed. But it happens all the time, people justify what they see. They don't want to get involved. Plus his father was a star med student and then a renowned psychiatrist. I doubt anyone suspected he was capable of all of it, and if they did, they probably figured no one would believe them."

.

.

* * *

.

.

**Present Day  
****March 23, 2012**

.

.

My last day at MH feels strangely surreal. Part of me feels like I've been here forever, like I could never get used to the idea of not waking up at six a.m. for Group Therapy, taking pills from a cup, or revealing my feelings to someone different every fifty minutes. Another part of me feels like I just walked in this immaculate, excessively-lighted building and only left home an hour ago. Either way, I can't wait to leave.

"You need to be careful," Micah warns me, but I'm too excited by the prospect of Wolf's arrival that I'm staring at the intercom more intently than I'm listening. "You're going to feel okay at first, but any kind of stress could be devastating. Are you listening?"

"What?" I look up, dazed. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. So I should, what, hide under a rock?" I don't think it's possible to avoid stress entirely. Hell, I stress myself out just by existing. I'm trying to figure out how he thinks I'm going to get around this.

"No, you should just take it easy. Don't rush back to work."

"Fine," I concede. "But they're just gonna put me on the desk forever. Actually, shit. That is pretty stressful."

Micah smiles a little, notices the nervous tapping of my shoes, and speaks up again. "How are you feeling right now?"

I shrug, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Well, I want to go home. But otherwise, yeah, I'm okay." Okay, these days, means that I wake up now without feeling like I should be making a beeline for a shot glass, and that I have the capacity to focus on something other than just drinking to oblivion on a weekly basis. It means I don't forget to eat and sleep as much as I used to. Micah seems satisfied by this. I personally feel like three months in this place should've gotten me even further, but, I'll take this feeling over what I felt before, and run with it.

"Good," he says, nodding slowly. He follows my gaze to the intercom and, on cue, it flashes and beeps.

"_You have a Ryan…Wolf here to see you," _a scratchy voice announces. My heartbeat revs. This is it. Three months, two days, eleven hours. And I'm finally getting the _hell_ out of here.

.

.

"I have something to show you," Wolf announces, after I hug him with a kind of intensity that almost seems to scream that I thought I would never see him again.

"Yeah? Is it Amber?" I ask hopefully.

"Not exactly," he says. "I sort of got a new apartment."

"Sort of?"

"Okay," he admits. "I broke the lease on both of ours and rented a new one in Clinton Hill. It's six-fifty less and like eight blocks closer to work. Please don't kill me."

"Kill you? Are you kidding? This is the best news I've gotten in three months, Wolf." I follow him to the exit, passing check-in on the way. This time, however, no one tries to stop me.

"You ready to get out of Manhattan?" he asks, after we successfully escape and emerge into the parking garage.

I pull open the passenger door once we reach the car, "So fucking ready."

He looks at me from across the roof and smiles, "Let's go home."

.

.

* * *

.

.

I spend the immediate days following my discharge from MH feeling like a lab rat. Wolf has apparently taken sick days to stay home and master the art of watching me like a hawk. I remind him once every few minutes that I'm better, but it's almost like he has recurring short term memory loss or something.

"But you just got home," he points out. "How can you know for sure yet?"

"When did _you_ get so skeptical?" I ask him. "Besides, that was the longest fucking ninety days of my life, Wolf. Trust me, I know."

I'm not saying I left MH feeling like all my problems were gone – far from it, in fact. But I do feel like they aren't as big as they were before; that they aren't as daunting or as suffocating or as dark. The rehab and the meds and Micah seemed to have successfully shrunk them down into a manageable size so that when I did try to fight, I actually stood a decent chance of winning. Wolf finally gives in after I explain this to him.

"Fine," he says, reluctantly picking up his keys. "But I'm going to call you every hour and if you don't answer, I'm coming back."

Every hour sounds excessive, but I hold my phone up and say, "No problem."

.

.

I'm lying in bed one morning when I realize that the black cloud I've been living under for so long has lifted, but the abyss is still there, within reach, just close enough for me to fall into again if I'm not extremely careful. I know that if that happens – if I linger too closely to the edge – there'll be no coming back. It's not the type of thing you can just climb out of; you can't even be convinced, dragged, threatened, or negotiated out of it. It's permanent. There's no light at the end of the tunnel, because there isn't even a fucking tunnel. There's just blackness. So I get up every day and dutifully swallow the pills, and drink all the water, and I brave midtown twice a week to see Micah so I don't forget how much I don't want to end up back there again as an inpatient.

"You're awake," a young voice announces. I look up to see Amber bouncing in, falling next to me on the bed, engulfed in an old NYPD sweatshirt that's either mine or Wolf's and seems to be swallowing her whole, maybe even more than it should be.

"Eh, sort of," I mumble. With all the crack-of-dawn meetings and counseling sessions at MH, I've sort of lost the art of sleeping in. "You have class?"

"Not today," she says. "My Environmental Health professor is like in Guam or something."

I nod, "Big college senior, huh?"

"I guess," she shrugs. "If I can get through this semester without totally failing everything."

"You'll do alright, Amber," I assure her, and we lay there looking up at the fan for awhile, and then she turns to me.

"What about you? Will you be alright?"

"Yeah," I sigh, not wanting to sound too sure or too doubtful. "Yeah, I think I will."

.

.

.

Sometime in April, Wolf gets home from work and finds me in the living room watching some end-of-the-world documentary with the volume down low. He tosses his keys onto the floor and sits down next to me. He hands me a folded piece of paper.

"The hell is this?" I ask, glancing at him suspiciously.

"Just open it," he orders, leaning forward and taking a water bottle from in front of me.

I sigh and unfold it, my eyes scanning the typed words, and Lieu's signature at the bottom. My mind is slow to process at first, and then it all comes together.

"You got me reinstated," I realize, looking at him, nearly speechless. I was starting to think that I might never see a desk, let alone a squad car, again. "This is…how did you do this?"

He shrugs and finishes off the water, "Someone once said that I'm very persuasive."

I smile at him briefly, "Thank-you," I say. "Seriously, Ryan. Thank-you."

He sets the now-empty bottle down, "You're welcome," he replies softly.

.

.

* * *

.

.

The precinct house is just as busy and loud as it was the last time I was here. I manage to squeeze through a crowd of uniforms offering their welcome and make it to the locker room. Some of the people I know well — Royal, for example — know why I was gone and where I was for three months. As far as I know, everyone else just thinks I was on vacation. If only Manhattan Hope actually fell under that category. I'm pretty sure that a lot of them have their suspicions, and honestly, at this point, I don't really give a shit what they might suspect. It's not like my problems have been exactly subtle over the years anyway.

I stand in front of my locker for awhile, wondering what the point of putting on my uniform is if I won't be carrying a gun or making arrests, or hell, even leaving the building. I've been reinstated, thanks to Wolf, but not completely. According to Lieu, I'm on the desk indefinitely. I didn't like the sound of it, but he assured me he'd be evaluating me for field duty soon. I shouldn't be so impatient, really, considering another lieutenant would have sent me packing years ago. This is the lieutenant who should, morally and ethically speaking, be out of a job if only for ignoring all the proverbial red flags I've ever inadvertently waved in his face that may have read, in big, bold letters, "UNFIT FOR DUTY". But he's also the same lieutenant who knows that _without_ this job, I am, if it is even the slightest bit possible, worse.

Sighing, I change and then head for the door. Wolf stops me just as I take my place behind the desk and roll my eyes at the ringing phones.

"You with Royal today?" I ask.

He shakes his head, "Not anymore, he's back with Turner. It's just me for now."

"You're solo?" I ask, somewhat unsettled. BedStuy isn't as dangerous as it was when I first transferred, but it's still not the kind of place you want to be patrolling alone at night.

"It's fine," he says, unfazed.

"Not really," I tell him, but I don't have a solution. I'm not really in any position to be asking the lieutenant to start moving people around just because I'm concerned.

"Have you talked to her yet?" Wolf asks suddenly, changing the subject and nodding toward the stairs. After a failed attempt to apologize to Faith at her apartment, I took his advice to wait a few more weeks, even though the time passed painfully slow. I'd rehearsed over and over again in my head what I intended to say almost the entire time I was in treatment. Ironically, now that I know she's only a dozen yards away, the task is somehow becoming much more daunting, and all the things I planned to say are gone. Suddenly I don't have the slightest idea what to tell her and I'm not so sure there are any words that would do justice to how sorry I really am.

"No, not yet," I mumble. He looks at me with an expression that's half sympathetic and half seems to say, 'good luck with that'.

"I should go," he sighs, glancing at his watch after lingering at the desk for several more minutes.

"Yeah, okay," I nod. "Be careful?"

"Always," he replies, and then walks off and out the door. I don't feel very reassured.

.

.

* * *

.

.

It takes me another four days before finally, after shift, I find the courage to brave the stairs. Believe it or not, we have communicated since I came back to work, but only in brief instances when she would pass the desk on the way out. Our conversations were limited to quick questions regarding my wellbeing before Miller vaporized and shuffled her away from me as if I might suddenly recreate that night, unprovoked and in front of an audience. I guess in some way I should be grateful that all he does is give me a deathly stare before leaving. If I were him, I would have emptied a clip into me months ago.

I manage to get to her office without becoming too deterred. I'm relieved to find that Miller's desk is empty, and I slip inside and close the door. Her chair scrapes the floor suddenly as she jumps.

"Jesus Christ, Bosco!" she says in a strained whisper, looking down and recovering quickly.

"Sorry! I'm sorry," I say, cringing and immediately feeling like an idiot. Why not sneak up behind someone I recently punched in the face? I slowly take a seat in the adjacent chair, running my hands over my face and muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid. Fuck."

"It's okay," she says, pulling her chair in. "You just scared me."

Of course I did. Like I said, I'm a fucking idiot.

"Miller's talking to Jelly," she continues, nodding toward the hall. "If you're in here when he gets back…"

"I can't avoid him forever," I interrupt, attempting to sound as if the idea of actually being confronted by him doesn't make me nervous. All the times I intentionally picked fights with the man and now I'm sitting here hoping like hell to avoid one. "We sort of work out of the same building."

"I guess so," she shrugs, and then looks up. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," I reply quickly. I'm getting sick of that question. I hear it a dozen times from Wolf and Amber and Lieu and Royal and my answer hasn't changed. But more than the repetitiveness, I'm sick of her asking how _I'm_ doing. I want her to ask me something else. I want her to ask me what the fuck I was thinking. I don't actually know the answer; I guess I wasn't. But I want her to ask. I want her to be pissed off as she rightfully should be. I want her to scream at me, and in the absence of that, I want her to forgive me — not by dodging the subject, but by actually telling me. I don't really _want_ her to hate me, but because I feel like I deserve it, I want her to tell me she does. I guess I just want her to show some kind of fucking emotion besides this sudden subdued concern for my emotional health.

"Just okay?" she asks, glancing nervously toward the door and then back. "No milestones? No setbacks? No side effects?"

I scoff a little, "You wanna hear about side effects?" I lift my hand off the table and hold it up, so she can see it as it trembles. Micah's supposed to taper me off this shit soon, so that I can hold a gun long enough to requalify. My eyes make it hard enough to do that already.

"I don't know," she shrugs again, looking down half-heartedly at paperwork. "Something so I can tell if you're really better or not."

"Figured Wolf would probably tell you."

"He doesn't really talk to me anymore," she says quietly, not looking up.

After their fight at the hospital, I should've figured they weren't going to have some kind of revelation while I was locked away downtown. Honestly, I think that whatever sense of civility they've maintained over the past couple years was just for my sake. I think that, because of me, they stopped being friends a long time ago.

"Well," I continue, sighing uncertainly. "I'm better, I'm just, you know. Not writing it in stone yet I guess."

Faith opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a louder voice. Miller. _Fuck. _I stand up to face him when he appears, putting his hands on the back of her chair and staring at me with pure contempt.

"Get out." He says coldly, his voice surprisingly quiet.

"I was just…" I start, but he quickly cuts me off.

"_Get. … Out."_

Obediently I put up my hands in surrender and head for the door, stopping just before I reach it. I realize that I haven't exactly accomplished what I came here to accomplish. I turn back toward Faith, who looks slightly sympathetic but, mostly, just extremely regretful that me and Miller ever had the misfortune of meeting each other in the first place. It's really been nothing short of a train wreck since the beginning.

"You gotta know how sorry I am," I tell her, my voice slightly desperate. With the way he guards her, I'm afraid I might not ever get a chance to apologize again. "You gotta know."

She looks like she might say something, but again Miller intervenes, putting his hand on my shoulder and nearly shoving me out the door. Faith seems like she's somewhat appalled for the first time, which I decide is progress on the whole showing-some-kind-of-emotion part, and she stands up.

"John, stop!" she shouts. He turns around to reply and I back up slowly into the hallway. I've done all I can for tonight.

I can still hear their raised voices as I make my way back to the stairs.

"_Just talking? Seriously, Faith? And last time, you were just talking too, right? And suddenly you had a split lip!"_

"_How many times do I have to tell you, John, you're overreacting! He got help, okay?"_

"_That's such bullshit! You can't help something like that. It's not from fucking alcohol or whatever the fuck else he had going on. It's fucking _genetic_."_

I cringe at Miller's words. Genetic? This hasn't actually occurred to me until now. Surely I wouldn't have done something like that in the absence of alcoholism. Would I? I close my eyes at the thought and listen in again. Faith says something inaudible that sends Miller into another rage. A few suits have stopped what they're doing and are intermittently glancing in their direction, but mostly, everyone carries on as usual. Yelling, when it's being done between them and I'm anywhere around, is so common around here, no one ever gets involved anymore, or even tries to diffuse the situation.

"_He fucking _assaults _you and _I'm _the fucking bad guy here, that's just fucking great, Faith." _

Miller exits the room angrily and suddenly we're face to face again. He hesitates, just staring toward me, his face nearly blank, which is confusing given his recent expression. When he speaks, though, his tone hasn't changed.

"If you ever get any closer to my wife than you are right now, I swear I'll…"

Loud commotion from downstairs, near the front desk, interrupts Miller sharply before he can finish saying what I'm assuming was going to be something along the lines of killing me. The two of us immediately rush down a few steps and look over the railing to see what's going on. Faith and Jelly have heard it too and appear next to us.

"The hell is it?" Jelly asks, but none of us answer. We're not even really sure ourselves. All I can see is Lieu and a few other uniforms negotiating with a man in civilian clothes who's shouting and generally irate. This isn't entirely unusual, for someone to be shouting and irate, but it usually tends to occur when it's daytime, or when uniforms are making ridiculous collars just to shake up the neighborhood or, my favorite, when I'm the one at the desk.

We walk a little further down the stairs but it's still hard to figure out what's going on. The man is shouting something about finding or talking to someone, and the closer I get, the better I can see him. He looks strangely familiar, despite that I'm almost certain I've never met or even seen him before tonight. His hair and eyes are dark, even from where I'm standing, and he looks, at most, ten years older than me. He eventually turns toward the direction of the locker rooms and starts shouting and motioning for someone to approach him. My heartbeat quickens when Wolf appears, taking cautious steps toward the man. _Son of a bitch! _I think, completely confused. _Someone taser this fucking jagoff!_

As I'm standing here trying to figure out who this guy is and why I think I know him, he reaches swiftly into his jacket, pulls out a gun and fires a shot over his head, sending uniforms into a complete panic to draw their own weapons and to scream orders at him to drop it. Faith is still beside me and, instinctively, I reach over and pull her down with down to the floor. Miller does the same thing, at the same time.

"Who the hell _is_ this guy?" Miller asks no one in particular, after we find both of our hands on her shoulder. He gives me a vague look and then the three of us start to get cautiously to our feet. Him and Faith both draw their weapons, and I feel slightly helpless until she reaches for her backup and hands it to me. She does so slowly, like she's not sure if it's a good idea or not. It probably isn't, but, it's also probably not a good idea for any of us to be unarmed right now.

The man is moving too erratically for anyone to take a shot. The way he's waving around what looks like a nine millimeter seems like a pretty good reason to try and take one, but with Wolf just feet away, I pray they won't risk it. Suddenly, in one swift motion, the man slips his arm around Wolf's neck, dragging him backwards, fires another shot, this time into a wall, and then shoves the barrel roughly up against Wolf's temple.

I stop walking.

I freeze completely.

I'm still clutching Faith's gun, but it's uselessly by my side in a shaky, unreliable hand. My heart rate must be in the hundreds, because it's beating so hard that I can actually hear it, even over all the sounds of desperate negotiation attempts and chaos.

"_Who is this guy, Bosco? What does he want with Ryan_?" Faith is asking, but her words sound distant and muffled as I stand, watching my world get leveled. Wolf is tugging desperately on the man's forearm that's pressed up ruthlessly against his neck. I manage to catch his eyes for a few seconds, and all I can see in them is fear. Not confusion, like I'd expect if a random person had walked in and held him at gun point, just fear. It's the kind of fear that seems to imply that he already knows what's going to happen.

It's a sort of familiar fear that I'm pretty sure I've seen in his eyes before.

And suddenly I know exactly who the man is.

.

.


	12. Part 12: The Gold Shield

.

The Right Thing 12 — "The Gold Shield"

Lyrics: Father of Mine by Everclear  
A/N: Thanks for the well wishes! Oh, and if you're coming here from LJ or TWnet, sorry --- apparently there's actually a "character limit" (who knew?) and I've been too lazy to do anything but link to FF. Anyway, this chapter brought to you by angst and italics...  
Disclaimer: Still own nothing, sadly!

.

* * *

.

**April 23, 2012 - Present Day**

.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me about this part?"

"I didn't think it was relevant!" Micah lashes back.

"_Relevant_?" I laugh bitterly. "You're a fucking doctor and you didn't think it was _relevant_?"

"That's not what I meant. I meant I thought he told you! I figured you knew about it. You knew everything else."

"Yeah, well. I didn't." I'm pacing his office, my hands running over my face in frequent, frustrated intervals. I'm sick of hurling angry, loud words back and forth, but that's about what we've been doing for twenty minutes now. I never sat down, Micah never asked how I was doing — though I guess he never got the chance — and he never went over my medications, never made any kind of annoying personality observations, and I never did anything but start raising my voice. In fact, this appointment has served no purpose other than shouting, which in and of itself isn't really serving any kind of purpose either, but I came for answers and I'll be damned if I'm going to stop now.

"What did you want me to do?" he asks, throwing up his hands.

"I don't fucking know, Micah!" I shout. "Something! Fucking _something_!"

"I did _something!_ I did _everything_ I could. I did my best!"

"Yeah, well, your best sucked," I tell him ruthlessly. I don't know if Micah is the villain and I don't really know if what I'm saying is justified, I just want answers. I want someone to explain to me what the fuck happened in that locker room. I want to someone to give me a reason why all of this shit happened at all, even though I know there is no reason. There never is for child abuse. "I just," I sigh. "He was eighteen, you know? He was fucking _eighteen_."

"I know. But I was twenty-four," Micah replies, becoming somewhat defensive. "You keep forgetting that I was a kid too, Bosco. You keep looking at this from your perspective but when you were twenty-four you had what, three? Four years on the job already? I didn't. I wasn't a cop, I was a damn med student."

I shake my head and sit down for the first time since flying past reception and storming into his office.

"I promise you, I did everything I could for him at the time," he continues, probably relieved I've stopped verbally attacking him; accusing him of inaction. Then again, he probably got used to that sort of thing months ago. "When I met him he was already a walking startle response. Hypervigilance, insomnia, PTSD, OCD… just about every acronym in the book. I spent the rest of my college career trying to help him, trying to _fix_ him. He was my best friend. I know you think I don't know him anymore, but you don't have to remind me twice a week that I could have done something else. Maybe I could've but I didn't know it then and I have to live with it now."

I watch him for several seconds, processing his words. Maybe I _have_ been looking at the situation through the eyes of a cop, I don't know. Honestly, I don't think it matters what way I look at it. Either way, the view is miserable.

"I don't get it, Micah," I start finally, backing off for now. "A couple things. Like, his father didn't drink. He didn't do drugs, at least not as far as I know. Nothing he ever did was…I don't know, caused by _anything_. Except maybe work or stress but everyone has that and they don't torture their kids because of it. So why? Why did he do any of it?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," he replies. "But the look you saw on his face? The way you said he acted in the locker room?"

"Yeah," I confirm, remembering. "One second he was calm, the next he was freaking out or shooting. Like there was some kind of switch he was just turning on and off."

"Classic sociopathy," Micah explains. "There probably never really was a reason. Just, to him, never _not_ a reason either. And Wolf was an easy target."

"Then why…" I stop and wipe my hand over my mouth, aggravated. "I don't get why he never pressed charges. I mean, it doesn't seem like him. He gets pissed whenever a vic won't testify. Knowing he was gonna join the NYPD, he still did nothing. He just left."

"Don't think he had such a plan," he says. "Wolf never said anything about being a cop until he came to me and said he was going to New York. Said he had to leave, couldn't stay another week. He asked me to come with him, but I just started my residency. Besides, I wasn't the one with something — someone — to run from. And before that, I think he figured that even if he did press charges, his father would get the best attorney in the state and somehow get off, finish what he started. And without his testimony, the state wasn't going to pursue it," Micah shrugs sadly and continues, "Mostly though, it was just fear. He was terrified of his father. It didn't matter if he was four hours away or four feet away — he was terrified. That was the one thing that never seemed to change."

I sigh and shake my head again. "He just left, huh."

"Yeah. Took him to the airport, never saw him again until December. When he asked me to help you."

"And you were so eager to do that because…?"

"I don't know. Ten years had gone by, but I missed him. I wondered what happened to him. Why do you think I moved?"

"To work here?" I ask sarcastically, looking around.

He smiles faintly, "That was collateral."

I smile back briefly and then frown, "But why…why would his father come here, Micah?" I ask, confused again. "I can't figure it out. He was young, he had money, he had a good practice, and no one knew what he did. Statute of limitations long ran out anyway, he was never gonna be prosecuted. Why walk into a police precinct and start shooting? Why show up eleven years later to kill his son?"

"I don't know, Bosco," he says quietly. "I don't know why people do most of the things they do."

I nod and fall silent. I'm disappointed that no one, not even Micah, can just give some kind of reason for the way things turned out. I've gotten used to him having most of the answers over the past five months, but now he seems just as confused as me; just as mystified by circumstance as I am. No one can tell me anything except that I can't change the past, that nothing me or Micah or, hell, _anyone _could have done would have really prevented it all. But it's hard for me to accept all that. And I can't decide what's worse — knowing that I couldn't have done anything, or knowing that I could have …but didn't.

.

* * *

.

**July 12, 2005**

.

_I wait just outside after my shift for Faith. When she walks out, we nearly collide. I'm trying to light a cigarette with shaky hands, evidence of going an hour too long without feeding my six-month-long addiction. _

"_Shit, sorry," I mumble. I steady my hands and try again. Success._

"_It's fine," she says, and I walk beside her as she heads for Miller's truck._

"_We're okay?" I ask hopefully, clearing my throat. "I mean, after the other day."_

"_I'm fine," she says. _

"_You're not pissed?"_

"_That you talk before you think?" she laughs a little and shakes her head. "No, Bosco, I'm used to it. But that you seem to hate John for no reason at all? That you have this chip on your shoulder because I went to Swersky when I only did it because I didn't want you to get killed out on the streets…that you walk around so angry all the time, like I did something wrong. Yeah, yeah that I'm a little pissed about."_

_I look down at the pavement when she finishes, like I usually do when I feel bad but don't know what to say. "I'll see you later, Bosco," she eventually sighs, getting into the truck. I nod and back away. _

"_Better, I guess," a sarcastic voice behind me says. I turn around to face Royal and roll my eyes._

"_You just, what, show up when I'm talking to her to tell me what a piss poor job I've done?"_

_He shrugs, "Yeah, something like that."_

_We stand there for a few minutes and I shake my head at my complete inability to actually discuss all those things — Miller, Swersky, the shooting — with her. _

"_Where's your partner?" Royal speaks up again at some point, looking around. _

_I toss my cigarette down, stomp on it angrily, and scoff. "Which one?"_

.

_

* * *

_

_._

_Now that I'm a grown man, with a child of my own  
I swear I'll never let her know, all the pain I have known_

_._

**April 10, 2012 - Thirteen days earlier**

.

"Lower your _fucking_ weapons!" I nearly scream, once I've successfully unfroze myself long enough to take some action. For several seconds I was completely futile, standing there, terrified and physically unable to move. Now I've slipped Faith's gun into my waist and am marching in Wolf's direction, shouting at uniforms to put their guns down. The last thing I want is for one of them to try and take a shot while he is being used as a human shield.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asks, glancing at me suspiciously and then keeping his eyes moving, making sure that everyone had listened to me and put their guns down. "Why do you fucking care so much?"

"He's no one," Wolf gasps quickly, still fighting to loosen the man's grip against his throat. "Leave him out of this."

Wolf's attempt to make me sound irrelevant just sparks the man's interest even more. He removes the gun from Wolf's temple, and Wolf looks like he might try and get away until the man points it at me. I put my arms up to feign surrender for now.

"Just take it easy," I say, struggling to keep my voice calm.

"Shut up," he orders, dragging Wolf along as he shuffles backward toward the locker room door. He gives everyone around him a look of warning. One uniform says something about just wanting to talk to him, but he ignores them.

"You," he says, looking back to me. "Come on." He backs up some more, opening the door and doing a quick scan to make sure it's empty. It almost seems like a window of opportunity to intervene, but before we can, he turns around again.

"Bosco, don't listen to him," Wolf tells me, his face serious, his voice strained from a lack of oxygen.

"Get in here, now!" the man shouts.

I take few cautious steps forward, but as soon as I hesitate, he cocks the gun and shoves the barrel against Wolf's temple again. Suddenly any reservations I had about following them into the locker room seem unimportant, and to Wolf's repeated objections, I obediently walk forward.

"Try to come in here," he announces challengingly to everyone else from the doorway, pushing the gun roughly against Wolf. "I can pull this trigger faster." With that, he drags Wolf inside and shuts the door behind us.

Still keeping Wolf in a ruthless chokehold, he raises the gun to me, "Where's your piece?"

"I don't have anything," I tell him.

"Fucking liar," he hisses, a subtle southern twinge coming out in his voice. "Lift up your shirt."

I stall for several seconds, fumbling with my uniform. Part of me knows that if I give up my weapon, I give up the best way to try and get Wolf away from this psycho. Another part of me doesn't like the way he holds his gun; the way his finger sits haphazardly on the trigger, or the way Wolf's expression seems to imply that he's perfectly capable of killing him, and maybe even intent on it. I decide it's not worth the risk, and I lift my shirt, remove Faith's gun, and toss it to the floor. He kicks it away and it slides loudly across the room, out of reach.

"Don't _fucking_ move," he tells me. I put my hands up again to show him that I'm giving him no reason to shoot either one of us. He turns his face toward Wolf's, pressing his mouth close to his ear, "This your partner?"

Wolf's face contorts in anguish and he delays answering until the chokehold tightens, "_Yes_," he admits reluctantly.

"And he puts up with you?" he asks. He's talking to Wolf, but he's looking at me. "He knows how fucked up you are?"

Under his breath, Wolf mutters, _"Because of you,"_ but not quietly enough. The man hears him, jerks his neck back and drives the gun into his stomach, forcing him to cry out. From where I stand, only a row of lockers away, I cringe and cover my mouth. I'm completely helpless right now, to do anything except stand and watch, and it's killing me. I glance over at Faith's gun, still laying, loaded, across the floor, and I try to decide how long it would take me to reach it before he realizes what I'm doing. So far the odds aren't in my favor, and definitely not in Wolf's.

"What are you doing in New York?" Wolf asks fearfully, still recovering from the blow to his abdomen.

"APA conference," the man replies quickly, almost casually. It's hard to figure out what will set him off and what won't. He sounds like a sociopath, which I guess makes sense, considering what he's doing. I realize suddenly that the only thing worse than hearing Wolf talk about what his father did, is standing here watching him do it.

"Look," I start, slowly. "Is there something you want?" I'm careful with my tone; I know if I say one thing he doesn't like, one way he doesn't like it, it could be too late.

"I got what I want," he announces, walking Wolf toward a locker. I keep a nervous eye on the finger he's keeping precariously on the trigger, and every time he makes a sudden move, my heart jumps. "I got my son."

"You never wanted me," Wolf accuses quietly, continuing when his father doesn't retaliate. "I was a fucking mistake you ended up with in high school. You wanted to go to med school and I was just in your fucking way."

"You're right, you were a fucking mistake," he tells him. "But I dealt with you anyway. I put you through college and you threw it all away. Then you think it's okay to just leave, and not even _fucking_ call for _eleven_ years?"

"You put me through _hell_ for _twenty _years!" Wolf shouts. "Why the _fuck_ would I ever call you, so you could come and do _this_?"

I glance rapidly between the two of them, trying to predict what Wolf's father might do next. If I can get one step ahead of him, I might be able to intervene somehow. I look to the door and wonder what the hell is taking everyone so long to do something; to come up with some kind of plan. I'm also afraid that the only plan they're coming up with will involve storming the door, causing chaos and panic, and likely provoking him to shoot. I'm wracking my mind for a way to end this without putting Wolf in the middle of a hail of bullets.

The lockers clang and echo when he shoves Wolf up against them, making me almost jump. He shakes his head when he tries to writhe out of his grip, and turns the gun on me. Wolf sees him do this and stops fighting back immediately.

"I haven't done anything _yet_," his father replies finally, closing the gap between them almost completely. His words and the way he keeps his face so close to Wolf is unsettling, but it's the way that Wolf seems to expect it that sends a sick feeling flooding over me.

Wolf closes his eyes and swallows hard. He doesn't seem like he can take much more, and I'm not so sure that I can either. I can hear uniforms scurrying around outside, and I can make out muffled words and scrambled orders being given, and soon an authoritative but calm voice breaks in, just outside of the door.

"_Dr. Wolf,"_ the voice calls_. "I just want to talk to you. Why don't you open the door?"_

A hostage negotiator. Fucking fantastic. I'd be looking around for a sniper if the window wasn't in the most inconvenient place possible. Though I'm not exactly sure I want a laser beam anywhere near Wolf.

"Why don't you go to hell?" Wolf's father calls back. The negotiator tries to engage him with a few more misguided offers to talk — which is obviously the last thing this guy wants to do with anyone except Wolf — and then seems to give up temporarily. I hear what sounds almost like arguing on the other side of the door – a persistent, familiar voice and then what sounds like Lieu expressing his disapproval.

"_Just let me try this before you send S.W.A.T through that door and get both of them killed," _the person pleads. Their voice is muffled and I can't tell exactly who it is, I'm only certain that I know them. Lieu must relent, to the objection of other officers, because the door starts to open painfully slow. It's almost as if whoever is pushing it is trying to give me an opportunity to distract Wolf's father, who, fortunately, has his back to it almost entirely.

Feeling like I have only one chance to keep him from noticing, I do the only thing I can think of: I start coughing. Loudly. I cough so hard I lean over and brace myself against the nearest locker. It seems to work; Wolf and his father glance over, confusion in Wolf's eyes and annoyance in his father's.

"I thought I told you not to fucking move?"

I ignore him and continue coughing. He shakes his head and turns back to Wolf, who continues looking confused until the door closes silently and Miller appears behind his father. Miller. With his gun raised, looking like he's walking on broken glass. I glance at him carefully, hoping to hell that Wolf's father doesn't turn back to me and follow my line of vision. Miller gives me a single nod and mouths the words, _"Talk to him"._

With a shaky breath, I try to initiate some kind of communication again that won't push him over the edge. "I'm sure you two can work this out," I lie, my voice failing. What the _fuck_ am I really supposed to say to someone who has my partner at gunpoint? I want to tell him that I know everything he's done and that if it were up to me I'd see to it that he endures everything he ever put Wolf through and eventually dies an agonizing death, but right now that would just get Wolf killed. So instead I have to stand here and mitigate what he's done and justify what he's doing and it's a kind of emotional torture that I can't take much longer.

"You think I think I'm getting out here of alive?" he laughs derisively. He waves his gun between me and Wolf. "You think either one of you is getting out of here except in a bodybag?"

I feel my heart race. When he turns back and starts talking to Wolf again, I look over at Miller and widen my eyes, begging him to do something. Instead he just raises his gun, trying to level it with the back of Wolf's father's head, and then holds up one finger at me, as if telling me to be patient. I know he can't shoot at him while he's moving around, but patience? Like that's even a fucking _remote_ possibility in this situation. I watch helplessly for several more seconds as Wolf's father mutters things to him that make him close his eyes and turn away. He starts to fight back, but again, his father removes the gun from where it's resting against Wolf's neck, and points it at me. And once again, Wolf stops struggling.

"Don't do this, Dad," Wolf begs, when his father doesn't lower his gun from where it's aimed at me. "Don't fucking do this. _Please_."

His father shoves him up against the locker again, this time harder, "Then don't _fucking_ fight back!" he says angrily. "I'll fucking take out his knee caps, you want that?"

Wolf shakes his head wildly. His father sighs and brings the gun back to his neck. He takes the hand that's been pinning him against the locker and puts it roughly over his mouth, "That's all you ever fucking did," he sighs, disappointed. His voice is suddenly calm again, like when he revealed why he was in New York City to begin with, and I decide there's something seriously fucked up about how he seems to switch back and forth so easily between composure and his temper. It's like, in some twisted way, he's normal and logical but there's all this rage inside, and he's the worst kind because he's already decided exactly what to do with it.

"Always fighting back, always resisting," he continues, calculated. "I should've fucking killed you when you were nineteen." I watch him slide a hand down to Wolf's belt, and that sick feeling washes over me again, almost in a wave. _I never heard about this part._ I decide this is where it ends, and turn to Miller, mouthing the words _"TAKE. THE. SHOT!"_

Wolf has turned his head to the side, looking in my direction but not really seeing me. Tears are streaming from his eyes and running over the hand still mercilessly covering his mouth. He looks like he's given up. And I feel like I've failed him. I turn back to Miller who is steadying his weapon, and I have to hope like hell that he's a better shot than I am these days. He finally puts up three fingers, and one by one he folds them down in countdown form. I step back as far as I can, as fast as I can.

And Miller fires one shot.

Wolf's father hits the ground in two sick thuds, first his knees and then his head, or at least what's left of it. Miller instinctively kicks the gun away from the body. I thought I'd been more prepared for this, but now that it's happened, I find I can't get over to Wolf's as fast I want to. For several seconds I don't even realize that my mouth is open; I'm frozen again, and hating myself for it. The door flew open instantly at the sound of the gunshot and now uniforms, S.W.A.T, and medics are rushing in, swarming the locker room as I stand, completely incapable of action.

"_I can't believe I just checked for a pulse_," I hear Shepherd say, over all of the chaos. Even though everything felt like it was happening in slow motion as it occurred, it's over and now it seems like a blur. I feel completely out of touch and my ears are still ringing. I finally catch Wolf's eyes and remember my priority, but when I rush toward him, he's already pushing by the medics and heading to the bathroom on unsteady feet. I follow him, standing outside the open door as he leans over and throws up repeatedly.

.

.

.

I stand outside the same triage area where I've spent so many nights unconscious, being shocked, resuscitated, and otherwise revived. But this time, for once, I'm not the patient. I wish that I was. Instead I'm explaining to Canyon everything that went down just a few hours ago. He gives me a concerned expression and looks over at Wolf, who is staring down at the floor, avoiding eye contact with just about everyone, holding an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose with a shaky hand, and seemingly physically indifferent to the Ativan he's been given. I've been called catatonic before, and even I never looked as bad as he looks right now.

"There's something else," I tell Canyon slowly, as mind goes back to the locker room. "Something about the way Wolf looked…"

He folds his arms and looks at me expectantly, "What do you mean?"

I hesitate; I'm not good at any of this. And I'm just guessing, but I think this falls under the category of the stress Micah was referring to. "When everything was happening," I sigh finally, still feeling guilty that I didn't somehow prevent the entire thing to start with, or at the very least, stop it before escalated as much as it did. "It's like, he had this look on his face, you know, like he expected it. I mean, he was completely surprised that his father showed up after all this time, but the stuff he was doing — I don't know, Canyon, it's like he'd been through it all before."

"You're thinking part of the abuse was sexual?"

I shrug. I could be wrong — I _hope_ I'm wrong — but I don't think I am.

Canyon nods, "Well, it would make sense," he sighs, glancing toward Wolf again, and then back to me, sadly. "Look, there's no scale that could even measure how traumatizing this was for him. This kind of damage takes a long time to recover from, and that's if it's even possible to recover from at all."

"I know," I say, quietly devastated by his words.

"I'm going to write him a script for lorazepam, but he needs to start talking to someone, Bosco. Like yesterday."

"I know, I know," I repeat. "It's just…he's like me, he's not gonna talk to some department shrink. He didn't seven years ago and I don't think I could make him now."

Canyon squints like he's trying to think of another idea. "What about, uh," he starts. "What about Micah? He'd talk to him, right? You could bring him with you next time you go downtown."

"Yeah that might be a good idea," I concede. "Micah might…" I stop sharply, something clicking in my mind. _Fuck. _Canyon looks at me, confused, but I'm suddenly too angry to explain anything to him. "Son of a _fucking_ bitch," I mutter, and I storm off toward Wolf. When I reach him, though, his head is still down and he seems unaware of my presence.

"Ryan, did he know?" I ask, somewhat frantic, too angry and confused to beat around the question. I pull his mask down just enough for him to reply. He looks at me for a few seconds, like he's not quite sure who I am.

"What?" he asks, sounding weak.

"Micah," I specify. "Wolf, did he know about this?"

"You know he does," Wolf says softly.

I shake my head, "No, I mean _this_. What happened _tonight_." I try to get him to look at me but he averts his eyes quickly. "I know this sort of thing happened before, Wolf. I can tell. I need to know if Micah knew about it." I'm not sure why I'm so dead set on finding out the truth, but I decide it has to be because for the longest time I hated Micah. Even before I met him, I felt like he wasn't as noble Wolf made him out to be. But later on, I told myself I wasn't being fair, and I started to believe that he was telling the truth; that he really did everything in his power to help him. Now I feel like everything Micah told me about him and Wolf, the entire time I was in treatment, could be a lie. At the very least, I now know he left out a critical part.

Wolf must notice the desperation for an answer in my voice, because he finally relents. "He knew everything."

.

.

Faith finds me several minutes later, after I've paced the ER and finally end up in a chair just outside Wolf's room. I'm still running frustrated hands through my hair, trying to resist the urge to go all the way to Manhattan just to find out what the fuck is going on. But I can't leave Wolf right now, not while Canyon is in trying to coerce him into talking with a psychiatrist, who, ironically, I think is the same one the two of them tried to get _me_ to talk to a couple of years back.

"So," Faith sighs, taking the seat next to me. "The house is complete chaos. I've never seen it like this before."

I nod. I'm not surprised. Even for BedStuy this is intense: A man walks in off the street and takes a cop hostage. If that doesn't spark chaos after, I don't know what should.

"Miller's talking to IAB," she continues, trying to make some kind of conversation. I give her credit for this because _I_ sure as hell don't know what to say. I only saw her for a few seconds after Miller fired his weapon. She'd rushed over to make sure he was okay, and then she looked over at me, with mostly shock on her face. I want to tell her, now, about Wolf and Micah and my suspicions, but I'm almost too upset to even explain them.

"They were gonna send in S.W.A.T?" I ask, looking at her for confirmation.

"I think so, yeah."

"That would've gotten him killed. He was gonna pull the trigger, Faith. That's why he came there. That was his plan the whole time," I shake my head. "If Miller didn't come in when he did…" I stop because I don't want to think of the alternatives. I don't want to start picturing a S.W.A.T team rushing the door and it being Wolf's body that hits the floor instead. And as much as it confuses me to be silently crediting Miller, I have to do it. Besides I figure after everything that I've done, there was really never any reason for him to risk walking into that room to start with.

"I know," she replies quietly. "But he didn't, Bosco. He didn't. Wolf is okay."

I nod, but I want to tell her that she's right and wrong at the same time. I want to tell her he's alive, but he's not okay. Instead I ask, "What is IAB saying?"

"I don't really know yet," she explains. "But it can't take too long. I mean, it was a clean shot." She must notice the troubled expression on my face, because she leans forward, "It was a clean shot, Bosco. Right? Bosco?"

"Yeah, of course," I tell her quickly, a little too quickly, because she gets increasingly more suspicious. She seemed perfectly unfazed by the outcome just seconds ago. After all, given the situation, it was the best one, though I recognize that Wolf seeing his father shot in front of him has to mess him up, regardless of his childhood. I for one am happy the man is dead and my only regret is that I wasn't able to shoot him myself. But now Faith is looking at me like I'm not telling the truth.

"Bosco, look at me," she demands. "Tell me this was a good shoot."

I wipe my hand over my mouth nervously and Faith seems to take this as an answer, because the color leaves her face. "Jesus Christ," she whispers. "Bosco, what the hell happened in there?"

The scene replays over and over in my head: _I look at Miller, I silently tell him take the shot, he takes it, I back up, Wolf's father falls._ The same scenario continues in my mind in a rapid loop that seems to be gaining speed, making me dizzy. I realize what is missing: he never said anything. Technically, he should have aimed the gun at the target and then given the order for him to drop his weapon. Instead, Miller shot him point-blank without saying a word. But if he had said _anything_, surely Wolf would have been killed. That was the point of him coming in before the S.W.A.T team. And how is what Miller did any different from what a sniper would have done, if they could have set one up? To me there's no grey area, and I don't waste any time telling her this.

"He would've _killed_ him," I say, certain. "He said that's what he was gonna do. He had a fucking _nine millimeter _to Wolf's neck for _twenty_ minutes, Faith!" I stare at her incredulously, and then continue, "So Miller comes in and he shoots, okay? But he has to wait, he has to fucking wait because this son of a bitch keeps moving around, you know, and he can't just take a shot when Wolf is _right_ there. Because he was keeping Wolf _right_ there, Faith, right fucking against him, so we had to _wait_. I had to fucking stand there, watching, and _wait_." I put my hands up and shake my head in sheer frustration, "I couldn't do anything for him, Faith. I just fucking _stood_ there."

She looks at me sympathetically, but not entirely convinced that there was no other option. If only she'd been in there with me, then she'd understand. I sit, flustered, for a few more minutes before getting up. I'm planning to walk in and see if Canyon has made any progress getting Wolf to start talking, but I stop, annoyed, and turn around. I'm really not looking for a fight, and I'm definitely not trying to start one, I'm just legitimately confused by what feels to me like a complete double standard.

"You know, how is this any different…any _worse _than you killing Mann?" I ask, my tone almost demanding an explanation. She seems caught off guard by the question. "I mean," I continue. "You wait hours and hours before you drive across the fucking city and execute him, and then you lie about it. Which, you know, I understand. If things happened the other way around, if it was you Mann's soldiers took out? Yeah, I would've done the same thing. But then, then you ask if the Monroe shooting was good, when you know — you know _damn_ well that was never my fault. And now you act so…so _outraged_ that Miller didn't stopped to introduce himself before shooting this piece of trash?," I shrug, "I don't get you, Faith."

"Bosco," she starts, sounding cornered. "That was…eight years ago."

"Oh, okay then," I reply sarcastically. "So in eight years this will be okay too? Time just makes it all better, huh? Faith?"

We stand, silent, for a few seconds. I look at her impatiently for an answer, but it doesn't come. I toss my hands up as if throwing away the whole situation, and walk off. I don't get very far before my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and answer quickly.

"Bosco," the older voice says, confused. "I'm watching the news. What the hell happened?"

"It's a long story," I sigh, staring off into the room where Wolf still sits and where Canyon seems to still be negotiating with him. "I don't even know where to start, Sul."

.

* * *

.

**April 24, 2012 - Present Day**

.

Lieu motions me into his office when my twentieth shift on the desk draws to an end. I stand suspiciously, wondering if he's going to give me the all-clear to get back on the street, or if he's decided, in spite of my newfound wellbeing, that I'm still too much of a risk to send out in the field and he's about to tell me I'm banned to a desk for the rest of my career. But instead of saying either, he just takes a vaguely familiar-looking folder off of his desk and tosses it onto the chair beside me.

"What is this?" I ask, glancing down but not opening it.

"A promotion," he says flatly, catching me completely off guard, leaving me confused. It's not supposed to be one of the options.

I scoff, "Yeah, okay Lieu. Seriously."

"Seriously," he tells me, his face stony. "You said no seven years ago. You keep passing the buck and you will never see this folder again until you're too old to accept it."

"I'm not detective material," I declare simply, shaking my head.

"No one is," he shrugs. "No one is until they get upstairs."

He must notice the doubt on my face, because he's quick to continue.

"Look, Miller's gonna be chief of Major Cases at the end of the week. I need a D1 to fill his spot."

"You're saying I'd be working with Faith?"

"Would that be a problem?"

I shake my head slowly; this whole thing is too surreal. I glance through his blinds toward the desk I've abandoned. It's shift change and uniforms are flooding past it.

"What happens if I say no again?"

"Then it goes to Royal, I guess. He next up as far as rank goes."

"So then give it to him," I say. "He's a good cop, he deserves this."

"He didn't take six bullets for another officer."

"I'm sure if he had the chance, he would have," I say quickly. The fact that I'm favored because of some freak circumstances eight years ago is irritating. What happened was just bad luck and what I did wasn't heroic, it was just instinct.

"Look, Bosco, I don't make all the rules. I just try to follow them. Now I've turned a blind eye to your problems over the years…" he motions to his eyes, but I'm figuring that's not all he's referring to. "And I know you're doing better now, but I don't have any guarantee that you'll stay this way. I can't sleep at night knowing I send you out in patrol car for twelve hours a day when it takes you two weekends to requalify every year. This…this is a good thing. It's a good combination of the streets and the desk. It's not too much of either one. It's better pay and better hours. You will adapt."

I collapse into the chair, pulling the folder into my lap, looking at it and then at Lieu, my mouth open slightly. "Is this a fucking ultimatum, Lieu? If I don't take it, what, I get the desk until I retire?" I'm not sure why I'm so stunned, I guess because I figured if I was going to get threatened, it was going to be years ago during the worst of my downward spiral – not now, not after everything he's tolerated from me , not when I'm _better_. The timing just isn't here.

"No, it's not an ultimatum. It's just a strong suggestion."

I stare down again. Is there really a difference? "Look," I start, somewhat exasperated. "Can I…can I think about this?"

"Fine, sleep on it," he sighs. "But I want an answer end of the shift tomorrow."

.

.

.


	13. Part 13: The Damage You've Done

The Right Thing Part 13 — "The Damage You've Done"

A/N - Sorry for the delay, guys. I actually had this one finished for a while now, but I was travelling and completely forgot about it. It's a little rough...:/ Thanks for the kind reviews I've gotten, it really means a lot. :)

.

.

* * *

.

_**September 3, 2007**_

.

.

"_My wife just divorced me via text message."_

"_Nothing new, right?" _

"_Not really," Royals sighs. "She does it all time."_

_We both laugh. I glance through the window at the darkness and the generally awful weather and think about how winter in Bed-Stuy is always a huge inconvenience, especially when it's _your_ job to drive through the snow for twelve hours in an RMP with unreliable heat. I'm relieved to — half-way through my shift — be safely tucked inside Amber's diner and out of the cold. _

"_I left my wallet in the car," Wolf announces, sighing and heading for the door. _

"_Okay," I call._

"_Too bad he didn't leave his attitude in there too," Royal mutters from across the table after Wolf leaves. I would tell him to give Wolf a break, but since he usually does, I let it slide. Wolf's been dragging his feet most of the night, his eyes empty and any appearance of life in them only fleeting. At this point I've given up trying to get him to talk about whatever is bothering him; whatever has him so fucking troubled, besides the usual, and I've decided to let it go for now. I've discovered over the past two years that he'll talk eventually, as long as I don't corner him. _

_When he returns, cell phone in hand, I slide over toward the window so he can sit down._

"_Hey," he mumbles. _

"_Who were you talking to?" I ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Wolf was a psych major and he knows I'm only asking to see if it'll give me any insight on why he's acting even more distressed than usual. Especially since he seemed okay last night, temporarily recovered from his usual mood swings and random acts of rage long enough to watch football and attempt to help Amber study. _

"_No one," he says quickly. I nod and give up again. _

_The three of us aren't sitting for very long when his phone goes off and he rushes back outside with it. _

"_Seems worse than usual," Royal observes, shrugging._

"_Yeah," I say quietly._

"_Just don't do what you did last weekend." _

"_What the hell did I do last weekend?" I ask._

"_More like what you didn't do," he explains. "You didn't come to work. Not the first time."_

"_Oh," I shrug. I can't really remember last weekend. I remember drinking and then I remember Wolf complaining about how he nearly had to ride with Vandt and how he'd rather shoot himself and how he only didn't because Royal volunteered to take him at the last second and supposedly only as a favor to me. I remember that part pretty well. _

"_I end up with him _every_ time." Royal's not complaining as much as he's just used to being alone and that his people skills don't extend to troubled, brooding twenty-somethings, and I can't really hold that against him. He continues, "And I'm not good at this whole thing you're doing, you know, keeping him out of the bell jar."_

_._

_._

* * *

.

_We were drawn from the weeds, we were brave like soldiers  
Falling down under the pale moonlight  
You were holding me like someone broken  
And I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now_

_._

_._

**April 20, 2012  
10 days after shooting**

.

.

"Can we talk now?" I ask, walking into the kitchen where Wolf is washing his hands. It's something he does about five times more often than necessary since the incident, almost in some futile attempt to wash away everything his father ever did. He also looks over his shoulder, wakes up during the night, and just generally seems to walk around on eggshells.

"Fine, whatever," he mumbles. "Talk." He also communicates a little differently; a little harsher, a little more impatient.

"Maybe without the water?" I suggest. He shuts off the faucet angrily.

"Better?" he snaps.

I nod, unfazed by his tone. If I didn't expect him to act like this, I wouldn't be his partner, and I definitely wouldn't be his best friend.

"I talked to Royal earlier," I tell him, thinking about how Royal found me at the desk a couple hours ago and told me, among other things, that Wolf had been standing in front of the locker room door for thirty minutes. When I walked over, sure enough, he was standing there looking completely zoned out, eyes glazed, hands at his side. I put my hand on his shoulder, which ended up being a stupid move on my part, since it nearly sent him into a panic attack. Finally he just looked at me, _"I can't go in,"_ he shrugged. _"I can't do it." _I stood there with him for several minutes before finally taking his gun, locking it up, and taking him home, still in uniform.

Wolf's voice pulls me back to our present conversation. "No kidding," he says, unimpressed. He seems to expect that Royal gave him up.

"Yeah," I tell him. "He told me you're being reckless? Making risky traffic stops when you're solo? Not calling for backup…"

"God," Wolf interrupts sarcastically, pushing past me. "He has me all _fucking_ figured out!"

I ignore him and continue, turning around and raising my voice as he storms into another room, "He says you're not wearing your vest. Not wearing _your vest?_ Are you fucking _insane_, Wolf?" When he disappears behind the door, I follow him. "I mean, are you just out there _trying_ to get killed?"

"No, I'm not _trying_ to get killed, I'm already fucking _dead!_" he shouts, spinning around to face me and lowering his voice a little. "In case you couldn't fucking tell. It's all back, all of it, the nightmares, the fucking flashbacks, the panic attacks, the anger. I'm so fucking _pissed off_ all the time. I close my eyes for one second and it's all back, everything, _everything_ he ever did to me. It never fucking goes away, Bosco! And I can't wait around forever for it all to stop again, you know? I just can't. I _can't."_

"Wolf, I…"

"No!" he cuts me off, his eyes wild with despair. "Don't tell me I need to go to some department shrink because you know I can't talk to them! You know how they are. You know they're just going to give me a bunch of fucking pills and tell me none of this was my fault. Well, I already fucking know and it just makes it worse! How is it supposed to make me feel any better, to hear that I did everything right? To have them tell me I did _nothing _wrong, but it happened _anyway_? It doesn't, and I won't go, I _won't _talk to them."

"Then talk to _me!_" I tell him, exasperated. I want to help him so badly, but he makes it fucking impossible. I wonder if this is how he's felt, dealing with me the past seven years. "Talk to _me_ for God's sake, Ryan! If you won't talk to somebody else, just please, talk to _me_."

.

.

* * *

.

.

**April 24**

.

.

The night following Lieu's ultimatum is spent sitting in Ma's bar ruminating over the pros — if any — and cons of taking the promotion. I don't factor in _not_ taking it, since that doesn't seem to be an option. At some point, I sigh into my glass of water.

"You know, you don't come see me anymore," she says, almost sadly, wiping off the bar. Maybe it's a crappy way of trying to distract me from this decision that seems to have written 'exhausted and confused' all over my face.

"Not exactly the place for a recovering alcoholic," I tell her flatly. I think about how much I could use a drink right now, to numb my conflict of interest, but how I quickly took the water and how it has somehow, remarkably, sufficed.

"You don't come by the house either," she continues, though she knows damn well why I don't; why I haven't in over a year.

"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath on that one."

.

.

* * *

.

.

**April 25**

.

.

"How is Miller doing?"

Micah has asked me a lot of questions over the past four-and-something months, but never in a million years did I think he'd ask me this. It just figures that things have become so incredibly twisted, fucked up, and backwards that the question is actually somehow relevant and warranted these days.

"He's fine," I say. "IAB spent less than an hour with him and he was cleared. Two days off and he's back. I never got off the hook that easy for a lot less."

Micah smiles faintly, "And this is good, then."

I nod, "Yeah. I mean, I didn't want him tripped up for it."

"What about Ryan?" he asks. "Is he angry that Miller killed his father?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He doesn't really talk about it. Any of it. I know it fucked him up, to see him shot right there but…well, I know he knows the alternative. I know he knows Miller could've tried to just arrest him but he would've probably taken at least one of us out first. But mostly…mostly I don't know. I don't know because he won't talk to me."

"I guess it's safe to say he wouldn't come with you today?" Micah is clearly disappointed.

I answer from my seat in front of him, "No. He'll come around, though," I tell him hopefully, trying to convince myself. "I mean, eventually it's either gonna be he talks to you or Lieu sends him to the department shrink. He'll pick you."

Micah nods, satisfied, "How is he, otherwise?"

"Getting worse," I say honestly. "But me or Amber, well, one of us is always with him."

"Good. Is talking to you at all? I mean, about any of it?"

"A little," I admit. "But mostly he just changes the subject. I don't want to push him, but I want answers, you know?"

At Micah's insistence, and at Canyon's, I tried to negotiate with Wolf to come down here with me, but my attempts were useless. In fact, our conversations often went something like this, if even this well:

"_No."_

"_Please, for me. For everyone."_

"_Everyone? Why? Who else gives a fuck whether or not I talk to a shrink?"_

"_Oh, I don't know — me, Amber, Micah, Canyon, Royal, Lieu, the entire department, anyone who even has to _remotely_ depend on you to back them up once you go out on the street again?"_

"_Okay."_

"_So you'll go?"_

"_Fine."_

"_Really?"_

"_No."_

I just shrug at the thought and look down, shaking my head at the entire situation, at the whole incredibly ironic and fucked-up status quo that has me sitting here talking about Wolf's instability because at this point, it's actually more likely for him to lose his mind than it is for me to start drinking again. Micah must notice that I'm silently starting to dwell again, because he quickly interrupts; his keen sense of timing is hard to miss.

"When you first realized your vision was getting worse," he starts. "Whose opinion were you most concerned about?"

"The department's," I scoff. "They're the ones who could've kicked me off the job."

Micah tilts his head, "Yeah, but you're thinking about the consequences. I mean, whose _opinion _mattered the most to you back then?"

I sigh at his success, "Faith, I guess. But I told her about it."

"You told her eventually," he corrects. "But you waited. Why?"

"I'm not sure." I'm honestly trying to remember, but it's just been too long. There's been more miscommunication, or lack of, since then, and everything seems to be overwritten. It's hard to sort through it all these days. "I guess I was afraid of what she'd think. But it's different with Wolf. I'm not going to think any less of him if he tells me truth. None of it is his fault."

"And you losing vision wasn't yours. But you were terrified of her opinion, because it mattered to you. I think Ryan's probably feeling the same way. It's probably why he left all of this out in the first place."

I nod, "I guess so."

"Look, there's something I want to show you," he announces, almost cautious, opening a drawer on his desk. Almost as if it might not be a good idea. "It's not going to make you feel better, but it might give you some answers."

I watch him intently, wondering what exactly he's going to show me that will give me any more insight than I managed to lure out of him during my reckless post-shooting visit. He hands me an envelope a few seconds later — postmarked, and addressed to Wolf. I glance to the left at the stamped return address:

_Jack R. Wolf, MD, PhD  
1743 Locke Court  
Georgetown, SC, 29940_

The envelope has been opened before, maybe even several times, and I scrutinize the contents.

"Just don't hold this against Ryan," Micah adds, anticipating my reaction as if it will consist of anger, like it often does. "You can be mad at me if you want, but it was never my place to tell you. It still isn't, not really, but after what happened, I think you should know."

"Five hundred thousand…" I trail off, too distracted to really hear what he's saying. I'm looking down at a check dated September 3, 2007. "What the fuck?" I'm asking more for an explanation and less for confirmation — I know who it's from and I know who it's to, I'm just stuck on the part where it's for such an impossible amount and how it's somehow ended up in Micah Stamford's Manhattan office nearly five years later.

"Okay, so…" I'm still staring down, still trying to figure out what piece of the puzzle I'm missing. "He sends Wolf money… September. 2007. Six and a half years after Wolf moved?"

"That's right." Micah seems ready to spare me any further confusion, but I speak up again before he can save me the trouble. The point of the money seems mostly obvious, afterall.

"This was what, to keep him quiet?"

"Yeah," he nods. "He wouldn't take it. Obviously. Said it was blood money."

"But when—wait a minute," I frown, suddenly suspicious. "How did you end up with it? I thought you didn't see him after he moved? Until last year?"

"I honestly didn't," he explains. "Ryan called me after he got the money, and every now and then to tell me how the job was going. We stopped calling eventually, but when I saw him in December, it came up again. I helped him pack, when he got the apartment, just before your ninety days were up. He found it, got really angry, said he never wanted to see it again. I don't really know why I kept it. Maybe I wanted him to remember."

"Remember what?"

"That he didn't sell out."

We're quiet for a few seconds, my mind trying to make sense of what feels like information overload and the fact that Wolf never, ever even mentioned this to me, not even remotely. Finally, I can't take it anymore. "I can't figure this guy out," I declare. I look at Micah and shake my head.

"I know," he agrees. "But I think it was a last ditch effort to keep Ryan from going to the police. Once Ryan was far enough away that he actually felt safe, he told him he was planning to, that he still had a case, and that I would testify. I think his father was actually worried because he used to say he'd never be prosecuted, but Ryan would tell him that even if he didn't get convicted, a high-profile case like that would at least cost him his job if not his medical license. I think it scared him into trying to prevent that."

"It was a payoff."

"Yeah," Micah replies. "Essentially."

"Still doesn't make any sense," I tell him, doing a little legal math in my head. "I mean, what was the point? The statute of limitations would've been up in March that year, when Wolf turned twenty-seven. Months before his father sent him this money."

"Not really…"

"What do you mean?" I shake my head. "Wolf couldn't have done anything even if he wanted to. Too much time went by."

"For child abuse, yeah," he agrees, looking, for a minute, indecipherably nervous. "Not for rape."

.

/

.

"Are you…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," I'm pacing again, not an uncommon thing these days, especially when I'm around Micah, since that usually means we've discussed to death something that eventually gets me angry, or confused, or defensive. Something like me and my fragile willpower or, in this case, Wolf and his skeletons. In fact, it was only a couple of days ago that I was in here accusing him of doing more harm than good by keeping Wolf's secret. I still wonder if my bullying is what finally made Micah crack, or if he really decided I needed to know. Either way, I'm suddenly not sure if this revelation is going to help me help Wolf or not. All I know is that it has me feeling sick.

"Bosco…" Micah says, as if he might tell me to calm down, although he doesn't seem too concerned. I'm not angry at him, after all. A dead person aside, I'm not angry at anyone or anything in particular, except maybe circumstance. And I'm not shouting, and I'm not accusing him of anything, and I guess he figures it's an improvement over my typical reactions.

"Are you saying that Wolf could've taken him to court…any time? Even after this?"

Micah shrugs, "You know the law better than me."

I sit back down, laughing bitterly like I often do out of frustration or slight disbelief. I didn't know there was ever a chance for justice that didn't involve a hostage situation, assault, and gunfire, and now that I do, I wish I'd had the opportunity to get Wolf to take it. It might have been slim, but it was a chance, and it could have potentially avoided the trauma that's sent him back to sleepless nights, catatonic dawns, and paranoid days full of OCD and an overactive startle response. But there's nothing to guarantee that, and I guess there's nothing to make me confident that he would have even emotionally survived the agony of a trial, let alone volunteered for it.

"You know," I start, my voice quieter now, more calculated and less frantic. "I was glad Miller killed him. I still am. But I would've done anything to avoid that whole situation. I mean, I didn't care if he died or not. I just didn't want it to happen at Wolf's expense."

Micah nods, seemingly more content with or resigned to the injustices of life than I will ever be. "The system failed," he says simply.

I look back in agreement, though I know it didn't fail Wolf the way it failed me, or Mikey, or Amber. Not once, not even twice. The system's failed Wolf for thirty-two years.

.

.

* * *

.

**April 25**

.

.

"Anyway, it always ends with me walking into the apartment after shift, telling Wolf about how his father made bail and that he should probably start looking over his shoulder again."

Faith sighs, peering at me sympathetically from across her desk. I'm supposed to be sitting in her office trying to figure out whether or not the two of us working together again is even a remotely civil possibility. Instead, she asked me about Wolf, and I told her he's doing about as well as can be expected for someone who was recently held at gunpoint. In other words, terrible. She then asked how _I _was handling it all, and that's how I ended up on this tangent about a recurring dream (nightmare) I continue to have in which the whole hostage scenario had played out a lot differently.

"You're not sleeping?"

I sigh heavily at her suspicion. Apparently, my recovery can't be certain because I was just too fucked up for three months of Micah's in-patient psychiatry to fix. And I'm the first one to say that I'm a little shocked that such a relatively short amount of time did the trick, but, so far so good. I can't stand that she seems to doubt the lasting effect of Manhattan Hope on me. I did that enough myself after I got out; I don't need an audience waiting for me to fall on my face or, in my case, into a bottle.

"I'm sleeping fine," I assure her. "It's Wolf who never shuts his eyes."

She stares back quietly as if she doesn't quite believe me.

"Look, are you sure you're okay with this?" I ask finally. As far as I know, she didn't get much say, if any, in the promotion. Miller had gone to her with the news that he was becoming a chief and that the department would find someone to replace him as soon as possible. Surely he didn't expect Lieu to pick the one person from the 7-9 that spent his first quarter of the year in a rehab facility and who continues to start the day with a cocktail of pills just to stay on the straight and narrow. And I'm still not sure who is unluckier in this situation – Miller for having to confront me, me for constantly having to avoid him, or Faith for having to live with one of us and work with the other.

"Absolutely," she says. Her voice is resolute, but she doesn't look up and I'm not sure if I'm entirely convinced.

.

.

* * *

.

.

Wolf gets home on the night that I've decided to tell him that not only did I get offered a meritorious promotion for the second time in seven years, as a result of my actions in 2004, but that I also accepted it. I slept on it, like Lieu told me to do, although I suppose it was more of a tossing-and-turning-while-stressing-over-it sort of deal. Either way, he'd backed me into a corner. He didn't have to say it in so many words, but I could read between the lines: it was upstairs or three quarters.

_I'll take it, _I'd told him the next day, not too enthusiastically, end of shift as he'd asked. I hadn't gone to the usual people for their opinions. Not Wolf or Royal or hell, even Sully. Ironically enough, the only people I told, besides Faith who already knew, were Micah and Ma, but mostly after my mind was already made up.

_Good decision, _Lieu had replied simply. _One PP ceremony next week. You report to Miller. _

I'd left his office feeling like I was making a huge mistake, although a small, uncharacteristically reasonable part of me knew that it was probably for the best.

"Hey," I call, when Wolf closes the door. I'm still not entirely comfortable with him being back at work so soon, but trying to keep him home would be like trying to pry a whiskey bottle from my hands four months ago."Sit."

"Hey," he says, complying and then adding, "What'd Lieu want again? Saw you talking to him. He's letting you back on the street, right? This is fucking historical, I hate being alone. And whenever I'm with Royal, well, I think he's sick of me. Which is fine, you know, he's used to being solo and now he has to deal with me and I don't think he's really…"

"Wolf..." I interrupt, stopping him somewhat sharply in the middle of one of his breathless sentences that occur every now and then in his mostly level-headed existence, making him intermittently seem much younger than he really is. "Lieu's not letting me back on the street. I mean, not really."

"What?" He looks up, confused. "You mean, you have to ride the desk a little longer? He's just being thorough, Bosco, that's how he is. Did he say how much longer because I…"

"He promoted me." I tell him flatly.

I expect more of a delay, but he doesn't miss a beat, "You took it?" he asks, almost accusing.

"Yeah, I took it, Wolf. He backed me into a corner, said he couldn't sleep at night sending me out into the field for that many hours. It was an ultimatum. I don't want to go upstairs, but I'm not ready to retire and I don't want to push papers for ten years."

Wolf nods, his jaw tense, "So," he starts, unimpressed. "You're a detective."

I sigh, "No. Not officially. Not yet."

"But you're not a uniform either," he says, almost challengingly, getting to his feet. "You're not getting back in that car with me, are you?"

"No," I look up, regretful. "No, Wolf. I'm not."

He laughs bitterly, "Oh, this is so fucking great. You don't want me, but you don't want me solo, and Royal doesn't want me either. You know what? Maybe I'll just go ask Vandt if I can ride with him again. I mean _why_ fucking not?"

"Don't get mad," I mutter. I really don't intend for him to hear me, but he does.

"Don't get mad? I'm supposed to be happy, then? I mean, when the _fuck_ were you even going to tell me? How long have you known?"

"_One_ day, Wolf! One day, I promise."

"But you didn't think about talking to me until after you accepted it," he points out.

"I told you, Lieu had me in a corner, Wolf. And when I took it I was thinking of you. And Amber."

"Oh, okay," he starts, his tone sarcastic. "So this was for _us_, then. Well, I'll let you know when I figure out what fucking good it does _me_."

I stand up to face him, finally angry. If I can see the logic in this move, then surely he can too. "Listen to me, you need somebody out there who can back you up! I mean, someone who can _really_, _actually_ back you up!"

"But, you're better, now," he persists. "You're okay. _You _can back me up!"

"_I_ might be better but my eyes aren't," I tell him, raising my voice and neglecting to take a breath before I continue. "You need someone who can fucking _see_, Wolf! And Amber, I don't know how much longer she's gonna be here with us. I thought it would be nice if one of us, once in a fucking while was around when she was actually awake. I mean, have you actually seen her lately? She's a fucking skeleton. I thought if maybe, just maybe, one of us wasn't pulling doubles every fucking night, we might actually be around when she inevitably starts snorting coke to continue pulling all-nighters for this fucking school that we're paying for, and speaking of paying for school, the pay raise that comes with a D1 promo would help keep us from letting NYU suck us into bankruptcy. I didn't fucking take this to screw you, Wolf. I took this because as much I fucking hate it, it makes sense. I took it to _protect _you. I can't be the one that gets you killed."

Wolf looks at me, almost like he might just concede, agree that I have a point; that as much as it might suck for him at the moment, it is ultimately the right thing to do. If that's the case, I never thought I would be the one on this side of the argument. But instead, he's quiet. He shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. The door shuts violently behind him and I'm not sure, anymore, if it's the news I just gave him or if it's just the fact he can't cope with life after everything that's happened in the past couple weeks.

All I do know is that nothing seems to be getting better, and that door gets slammed a lot these days.

.

.

* * *

.

.

_**December 3, 2011**_

.

.

_As Royal approaches from the direction of the entrance, looking strangely unfamiliar to me in my drugged haze and his civilian clothes, Wolf's expression is heartbreaking. The closer Royal gets, the less it appears Wolf can wait to cry; it's like he's been waiting for hours for someone to be there while he falls apart. Clearly it can't be me, since I'm lying across the room on a gurney as the cause of all of his unraveling pain. But Royal has always been kind of like a big brother to him. Even though he's been solo on the job for years and loves his independence, he never fails to join Wolf on those increasingly-often shifts where I don't show up because I'm drunk, sick, hospitalized, institutionalized, or all of the above. Sometimes it confuses me that me and Royal get along as well as we do. It was fairly obvious that I was already beginning to fall apart when we met, and in spite of the two of us having a lot in common, it hardly seems worth all of the trouble I've been to him over the years. He has his minor vices and his marital problems, but he doesn't have a past that's fucked him up beyond repair like me and Wolf. Therefore, when I say he's level-headed, I can do it without saying _except _or _when _or _usually_. He just is. He hasn't seen all of my self-destruction up close, like Wolf has. If he did, he'd no doubt not just give me an ultimatum, but he'd see it through, the defining difference between him and Wolf being that I'd hate him for it, but he wouldn't care. He'd be able to see the greater good in it all, and he'd be readily able to walk away from me if he had to, something Wolf hasn't been able to do over the years and seemingly still can't. _

_I wonder why Wolf does it to himself, but maybe it's the same reason I spent so many nights parked on a curb in the dead of winter, waiting. Honestly, I'll never know. But I do know it's mutual, because even in his worst moments of split-second rage, up-all-night months, and flashbacks, I couldn't leave either. And there was a time when I believed his threats, that he would leave if I didn't sober up, and I would quite literally beg him not to go as I heaved a half-empty bottle across the room as contradictory promise to stop if he'd please, please, _please_ just stay. But I kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing some more and eventually I realized he was never going to leave. He cared, for whatever fucked up, delusional reason. He wasn't going anywhere, and I took advantage of the fact that I could say whatever I wanted, do whatever I pleased, drink however much I felt like I needed, and he would be there to deal with me tomorrow. I know it's been hard on him, I know it's been_ impossible_. __But it isn't until now — right now, as he, in my blurred, medicated vision, shuffles hurriedly toward Royal, looking devastated, shoulders slouched, hands wringing, legs uncooperative — that I really, actually, truly understand the toll that it's taken. It's not until now that I realize that in the process of trying to kill myself, I've actually been killing him. _

_And I hate myself for not knowing if that's enough to keep me from doing this again._

_._

_._


End file.
